LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

h>ed     (jZ&U^-  .  i*ff* 

Occasions  Afo.  7/%6'to.  Class  No. 


OF  SAN  FRANCISCO. 


This  Book  may  be  kept  Two  Weeks, 

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Eren 


.Shelf. 


I 


POEMS: 


BY 


SAMUEL   B.  SUMNEE 


AND 


CHARLES  A.   SUMNEE 


NEW  YOKK : 
THE  AUTHORS'  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 

1877. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1877,  by 

S.  B.  SUMNER; 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


DEDICATION. 

TO  THE  MEMOEY  OF   OUB  MOTHEB, 

PLUMA  AMELIA  BARSTOW  SUMNER, 

LONG  SINCE    DEAD,    FBOM    WHOSE    CULTUBED    LIPS  WE    LEABNED    OUB 
FIBST  AND   BEST  LESSONS,    THIS  VOLUME  13   AFFEC- 
TIONATELY INSCBIBED. 


PREFACE. 


THE  following  verses  and  rhymes,  written  at  different  periods 
of  oar  lives,  and  alternating  from  grave  to  guy,  will  not  lack 
at  least ;  and  will  afford  some  entertainment,  wo  trust,  to 
all  classes  of  our  readers.  Several  pieces  may  be  deemed  lacking 
in  dignity  or  poetic  art,  many  are  juvenile  compositions,  and 
many  are  of  special  local  interest ;  but  for  reasons  which  will  be 
obvious,  and  by  advice  of  those  whose  judgment  we  value,  wo 
insert  them  in  this  collection.  Not  without  timidity,  but  relying 
upon  the  public  indulgence,  we  launch  this  little  venture  on  the 
uncertain  sea. 


r/r 


>s 

I 

CONTENTS.          >V? 

^*Vv 


PAGE. 

The  True  Life— A  Rhymed  Sermon.— S.  B.  S 11 

Music.— S.  B.  S 35 

The  Irretrievable,— C.  A.  S 37 

utine.— -a  B.  S 41 

V:il. -mine— To  L.— S.  B.  S 42 

One  Valentine's  Night-C.  A.  S 43 

Lover's  Quarrel— S.  B.  S 45 

Ode^July  4th,  1850.— 8.  B.  .^ 46 

Why  I  Weep.— S.  B.  S                            is 

Valentine.— S.  B.  S 50 

A  Song  for  the  Boys.— S.  B.  S 51 

Ireland's  Opportunity.— C.  A.  S 53 

To  Helen— S.  B.  S 56 

The  Fall  of  the  Year.— a  B.  S 58 

Hope.— C.  A.  S 59 

Lines  Written  in  an  Album.— S.  B.  S 60 

To  a  Lady  on  Receiving  a  Bouquet. — S.  B.  8 62 

A  Combat— C.  A.  S 64 

Barnum's  Baby  Show— 1855.— a  B.  S 68 

Memory  and  Hope.— C.  A.  S 72 

Lines  Read  at  a  Supper  of  Company  C.,  1st  Battalion  In- 
fantry, Massachusetts  Volunteers,  1855.— 8.  B.  8 76 

Female  Equestrianship.— S.  B.  S 80 

John's  Day.— C.  A.  a 83 

<  'hristmas  Lines  to  Three  Boarding. School  Misses.— S.  B.  S..  87 

Lines  Read  at  Children's  Festival,  July  4th,  1356.— S.  B.  S. .  89 

vii 


yiii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Old  Scenes.— C.  A.  S 95 

Valentine— The  Lady  Helen.— S.  B.  S 102 

Lines  to  Ada.— S.  B.  S 104: 

Touches  and  Hints— Poem  Delivered  at  Zeta  Psi  Banquet, 

California.— C.  A.  S 105 

Lines  for  St.  John's  Day,  Great  Barrington,  Mass.— S.  B.  S. .  117 
Verses  Kead  on  St.  John's  Day,  Pittsfield,  Mass.— S.  B.  S.  . .  121 

Lines  Kead  on  St.  John's  Day,  Lee,  Mass. — S.  B.  S 125 

To  Belle.— C.  A.  S 129 

Atlantic  Cable  Poem.— S.  B.  S 132 

Two  Weeks.— C.  A.  S 136 

Lines  Kead  at  Dedication  of  Alumni  Hall,  Williams  Col- 
lege.—S.  B.  S 137 

Helena.— C.  A.  S 144 

Verses  Kead  at  Great  Barrington,  July  4th,  1861,— S.  B.  S. . .  145 

Memories.— S.  B.  S 148 

Poem  Delivered  before  I.  0.  O.  F.,  1863.— C.  A.  S 173 

Lines  Kead  at  a  Masonic  Supper. — S.  B.  S 191 

Lines  Kead  at  a  Dinner  of  the  Berkshire  Medical  Society. — 

S.  B.  S 196 

WOBDS. — Lines    Kead  before  Sacramento  Library  Associa- 
tion.—C.  A.  S 202 

Experiences  Afloat.— S.  B.  S 217 

Charge  of  the  49th.— S.  B.  S 220 

Lines  Written  at  Sea,  July  4th,  1863.— S.  B.  S 224 

To  Julia  in  Heaven.— S.  B.  S 228 

Musings  in  a  Cemetery.— S.  B.  S 232 

Poem,  July  4th,  1865.— S.  B.  S. . . ! 240 

Lines  Read  at  William  D.  Bishop's  Crystal  Wedding. — S. 

B.  S 251 

Poem  Delivered  at  Ke-union  of  49th  Massachusetts  Kegi- 
ment.— S.  B.  S .  257 


CONTENTS.  il 

PAGE. 

Lines  Read  at  Great  Barrington,  July  4,  1867.— S.  B.  S. 287 

Lines  Bead  at  Zeta  Psi  Supper,  1867.— S.  B.  S 292 

A  Legend  of  Black  Rock.— S.  B.  S 300 

Rose  Cottage  Reminiscences.— S.  B.  S 305 

Lines  Read  at  a  Clam  Bake,  1873.— S.  B.  S 309 

"Milk."— a  B.  S 313 

Gagrow.— C.  A.  S. 318 

Decoration  Day  Poem,  1869.— S.  B.  S 320 

Hymn.-  B  329 

Decoration  Day  Poem,  1870.— S.  B.  S 331 

Sunrise  on  the  Sierras  — C.  A.  S 342 

Farewell  Hymn  to  Rev.  J.  B.  F.— S.  B.  S 343 

Hymn  at  Dedication  of  Julia  Sumner  Hall — S.  B.  S. 345 

Prologue  to  Tableau,  Cagliostro's  Mirror.— 8.  B.  S 347 

Poem  Read  at  Opening  Bridgeport  Opera  House.— 8.  B  S. . .  349 

In  Memoriam.— 8.  B.  a     (With  Portrait).. .  357 

TheDial.-C.  A  360 

Lines  Read  at  Dinner  of  Fairfield  County  Bar  to  Judge  Sey- 
mour—8.  B.  S  361 

Poem  Read  at  a  Dinner  to  P.  T.  Barnum.—  S.  B.  S 3C6 

Martyrdom  in  the  Temple.— C.  A.  S  373 

My  Brother's  Ring.— a  B.  S 380 

a  at  St  George's  Society  Banquet,  1875.— 8.  B.  8 384 

Lines  Read  at  Re-union  of  Connecticut  Veterans.— S.  B.  S. .  392 
Poem  Read  at  Win.  D.  Bishop's  Silver  Wedding.— S.  B.  8. . .  397 
Lines  to  a  Lady,  on  being  asked  for  an  Old  Time  Valen- 
tine.—S.  B.  S 403 

Love's  Biography.  -  C.  A.  S 405 

Poem  Read  at  Opening  Town  Hall,  Great  Barrington.— 

! .  406 

Lines  Read  at  Burns  Festival,  1876.— 8.  B.  8 416 

Poem  Read  at  Williams'  Alumni  Dinner,  1876.— S.  B.  S. . . .     422 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Poem    delivered    at    Dedication   of   Soldiers'    Monument, 

Bridgeport.— S.  B.  S 429 

Lines  Eead  before  I.  O.  O.  F.,  Virginia  City,  Nev.,  1865.— C. 

A.S 438 

The  Funeral. —S.  B.  S. . 446 

A  Sailor's  Vision.— C.  A.  S 449 

Poem  Eead  at  Housatonic  Agricultural  Fair,  1876, — S.  B.  S..  454 

Silver  Wedding  Lines.— C.  A.  S 462 

Lines  Eead  at  Burns  Festival,  1877— "The  Lassies."— S. 

B.  S 464 

Shakespeare — Lines  Eead  at  St.  George's  Society,  Annual 

Banquet,  1877.— S.  B.  S 468 

The  Fatherand  Three  Sons. — S.  B.  S  ...  470 

The  Tramp's,  Soliloquy.— S.  B.  S 473 

Lines  Eead  at  F.  W.  Parrott's  Golden  Wedding— S.  B.  S. . . .  476 

Mors.-S.  B.  S 483 

Spring.— S.  B.  S 484 

Albert.— C.  A.  S 485 

The  Prodigal  Son.— S.  B.  S 487 

GSorgianna.— S.  B.  S  489 

Our  Father.— S.  B.  S. .  .492 


POEMS. 

THE    TRUE    LIFE; 

A  RHYMED  SEBMON, 
DELIVERED   ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS. 

IN  earlier  days,  before  life's  troubled  sea 
Had  oped  the  vortex  of  its  cares  for  me  ; 

AVhen,  to  my  youthful  and  enraptured  glance, 

died  out  afar  its  beautiful  expanse, 
Luring  the  voyager,  by  the  charming  scene, 
To  launch  forth,  hopeful,  on  its  In-cast  serene  ; 
AVhi'ii  youth  was  fresh,  and  boyhood  could  descry- 
No  cloud  of  threat 'n  ing  in  the  distant  sky  ; 
AVhcn,  unencumbered  with  the  toils  of  life, 
Its  whirl  of  business,  and  incessant  strife, 
The  hours  sped  on,  with  grateful  leisure  fraught, 
AVith  scope  for  fancy  and  untraimneled  thought; 

loin  to  stroll  through  Academus'  shades, 
To  con  the  classics,  and  t<»  woo  the  maids  ; 
Kach  winged  pleasure  in  its  flight  to  seize, 
And  idly  wanton  in  the  lap  of  ease  ; 
Ah,  then,  my  muse  !  in  many  a  rhythmic  line, 
T  my  offerings  at  thy  sacred  shrino  ! 
(11) 


12  POEMS. 

In  many  a  sonnet,  fashioned  by  thine  aid, 
Some  new  Dulcinea  saw  her  charms  portrayed  ; 
O'er  many  a  pun,  in  sportive  numbers  drest, 
My  listening  chum  applauded  with  a  zest ; 
To  many  a  crude  conception  of  the  brain, 
Provoking  mirthful,  or  satiric  strain, 
Reserved  from  Fancy's  evanescent  throng — 
Thou  gav'st  a  being,  and  a  garb,  in  song. 

Remorseless  years  !  amid  whose  length'ning  train, 

O'er  the  broad  waste  of  time's  extended  plain, 

Close  on  your  footsteps,  in  a  concourse  vast, 

Stalk  the  weird  spectres  of  the  fading  Past ; 

Mark  ye,  how  yonder,  in  despairing  gloom, 

What  splendid  hopes  have  found  their  early  tomb  ! 

See  in  those  forms,  with  cypress  wreaths  entwined, 

What  tearful  mem'ries  ye  have  left  behind  ! 

See,  fallen  prostrate  with  insensate  clods, 

The  crumbled  relics  of  those  household  gods  ! 

See  brave  resolves,  begot  in  pomp  and  state, 

Consigned  in  silence  to  an  early  fate  ; 

See  grand  beginnings  vanish  into  air, — 

The   things    that  were,   and  not   the   things   that 

wear — 

See  even  Genius  veil  its  sacred  fire, 
Its  flame,  uncherished,  suffered  to  expire  ; 


ran 

VERSITY 


THE  TRUE  LIFE 

See  many  a  wild,  yet  beautiful  idea, — 

Too  transcendental  for  'our  mundane  sphere, — 

Nipped  at  its  budding,  in  a  soul  intent 

On  notions  coupled  with  their—  ten  per  cent. ! 

To  deal  with  facts  ; — to  banish  earlier  dreams  ; 
To  clutch  the  baubles  which  the  won  is  ; 

To  grasp  the  work-day,  "practical"  ideas, 
We  enslave  the  thought,  and  dedicate  the  years ! 
In  sharp  pursuit  of  worldly  fame,  or  pelf, 
Our  first  is  bartered  for  our  second  self. 
Unlike,  dissentient,  when  we  join  the  two, 
Our  life  entire  is  monstrous  to  the  view. 
No  graceful  outline,  no  symmetric  whole 
Attests  the  hcalt :  -;  of  the  soul. 

No  pleasing  fitness  of  the  parts  combined, 
Shows  the  true  culture  of  tli'  immortal  mind. 

So  oft  we  note,  in  our  maturer  y» 

llov,  . i. lance  of  our  youth  appears. 

We  cheat  our  nature  of  its  first  estate; 

Some  powers  we  fetter  ;  some  wo  stimulate, 
stes  we  stifle,  which  the  soul  prefers, 

To  please  our  clients,  or  our  customers. 

me    li.^ht,    mayhap,    which    we    were    born    to 
shed, 

We  cloak  and  smother,  for  the  sake  of  bread  ; 


14  POEMS. 

While  some  lone  talent, — singled  out,  perchance, 
The  veriest  creature  of  a  circumstance, — 
We  task  and  torture  to  our  being's  end, 
Because,  forsooth,  it  yields — a  dividend  ! 

Not  so,  the  great,  eternal  Source  of  mind, 

Its  education  and  its  growth  designed. 

To  use  not  one,  but  all  His  gifts  to  man, 

Is  to  fulfill  the  wise  creative  plan. 

No  vain  appendage — no  superfluous  taste, 

No  talent  given  for  neglect  or  waste, 

Came  from  His  hand,  who  graciously  imbued 

Man  with  His  essence,  and  pronounced  him  good. 

The  dearest  homage  which  the  soul  can  show 

To  its  great  Author,  is,  itself  to  know. 

Itself  to  cherish  and  develop  here, 

As  ripening  only  for  a  higher  sphere. 

As  but  rehearsing  on  the  stage  of  time, 

For  that  grand  Drama — awful  and  sublime — 

When  the  vast  Drop-scene  shall  be  rolled  away, 

The  glorious  Hereafter  to  display  ! 

When  Heaven's  full  orchestra  their  strain  begin, 

And  the  Forever  shall  be  ushered  in ! 

The  sure  philosophy  of  life  to  learn, 
And  then  to  practice,  is  our  chief  concern. 


THE  TRUE  LIFK  15 

The  wisest,  happiest  method  to  pursue ; 

To  shun  the  false — to  cultivate  the  true. 

Not  all  alike,  in  power,  and  skill,  and  grace, 

Hath  the  great  God  endowed  the  human  race  ; — 

Some,  life's  abstruser  mysteries  may  sound, 

And  tread  the  caverns  of  the  deep  profound  ; 

Others,  on  Fancy's  airy  wing  may  fly 

To  scenes  unwitnessed  by  the  vulgar  eye. 

Some,  'neath  the  lordly  portals  of  the  brain, 

Their  royal  visitants  may  entertain  ; 

Guests,  that  from  far  ideal  realms  have  come, 

To  find  with  mortals  a  congenial  home. 

Not  all,  alike,  in  goodly  shape,  and  fair, 

The  tabernacle  of  the  Soul  prepare, 

Profuse  with  decoration — fitly  wrought 

To  wait  th'  indwelling  of  the  new-born  thought ; 

Yet  'tis  no  partial  Hand  that  first  outpours 

Upon  our  race  these  intellectual  stores  ; 

Nor  hath  thy  fellow  reason  to  avow 

Himself  mo-re  blest,  more  fortunate,  than  thou. 

Each,  in  his  own  unique,  peculiar  plan, 

Hath  the  beginnings  of  a  perfect  man. 

Nay,  e'en  the  basest  brother  of  our  kind, 

In  the  recesses  of  his  dormant  mind, 

Some  germs — all  undeveloped — may  behold, 

Which  might  have  reproduced  an  hundred  fold. 


16  POEMS. 

Blame  thou  not  Nature,  but  thy  froward  will, 
"Who  fail'st  a  glorious  mission  to  fulfill. 
To  thine  own  self,  and  Nature's  laws  be  true  ; 
Keep  life's  great  purpose  in  thy  constant  view ; 
Live  less  for  Time,  nor  set  such  priceless  store 
By  paltry  pebbles  on  the  barren  shore, 
But  lift  thy  gaze,  O  mortal !  to  descry 
The  boundless  ocean  and  the  starry  sky. 
Learn  well  the  mysteries  of  thy  first  degree  ; 
Conform  what  is,  to  that  which  is  to  be  ; 
So,  when  thy  brief  apprenticeship  shall  end, 
From  corner-stone  and  base  thou  may'st  ascend  ; 
In  grand  proportions  may  thy  structure  rise — 
Its  lofty  towers  upreared  against  the  skies — 
Till,  master-builder,  lastly  thou  shalt  come 
To  crown  thy  life-work  with  its  lordly  dome  ! 

In  the  great  reck'ning  at  the  final  day, 
When  the  recording  angel  shall  display 
The  grand  sum-total ;  and  our  life  appears 
By  thoughts  computed — not  by  length  of  years — 
That  life  the  truest  and  the  best  may  seem, 
Which  mortals  scoffed  at,  as  an  idle  dream. 
Perchance  the  dreamer,  disenthralled,  shall  stand 
Preferred  disciple,  at  his  Lord's  right  hand  ; 
While  hover  'neath  the  empyrean  skies, 
Souls  of  the  thrifty,  and  the  worldly-wise ! 


THE  TRUE  LIFK  17 

Thrice  blest  the  pilgrim  011  Life's  thorny  road, 

Which  leads  him  onward  to  his  long  abode, 

Who,  while  he  fails  not  duly  to  bestow 

A  just  attention  to  affairs  below, 

Regards  these  only  at  their  real  worth, 

Nor  barters  heaven  for  a  patch  of  earth. 

Who  ne'er  forgets,  amid  his  round  of  toil, 

How  unsubstantial  is  this  mortal  coil. 

With  ready  will,  to  earn  his  bread  attends, 

But  ne'er  confounds  life's  means  with  life's  great  ends. 

Who  deems  it  not  man's  paramount  pursuit 

To  build  a  factory,  or  to  make  a  boot ; 

Nor  thinks  his  duty  hath  been  wholly  done, 

Who  leaves  a  fortune  to  his  darling  son. 

Who  loves  to  search  within  his  storied  mind, 

Some  sparkling  jewel  of  a  thought  to  find. 

AVho  keeps  some  inner  chamber  of  the  heart 

From  life's  concerns  and  cankering  ills  apart, 

Win-re,  oft  withdrawing,  weary  and  depressed, 

His  spirit  finds  a  solace,  and  a  rest. 

Who  glads  the  ear  with  music,  and  the  eye 

With  forms  of  beauty  loves  to  gratify. 

Who  walks  with  sages  that  have  gone  before, 

And  treads  a  measure  with  the  bards  of  yore. 

Who  loves  at  times  in  cheerful  way  to  spend 

A  social  evening  with  a  pleasant  friend. 


18  POEMS. 

Who  prizes  books,  and  sedulously  heeds 
The  word  of  truth  he  garners  as  he  reads. 
Loves  a  bright  hearth,  with  happy  faces  round  ; 
A  family  board,  with  wholesome  plenty  crowned ; 
Loves  to  do  alms ;  promotes  each  noble  cause  ; 
Communes  with  nature,  and  reveres  her  laws ; 
Free  from  the  touch  of  time's  corroding  tooth, 
Learns  the  choice  secret  of  eternal  youth  ; 
Learns  to  subdue  each  rebel  passion's  rage, 
And  glides  from  manhood  to  serene  old  age. 
In  fine,  who  lives  a  life  of  generous  aim  ; 
Lives  not  alone  for  power,  or  wealth,  or  fame ; 
Lives  to  develop  as  a  perfect  whole 
The  various  traits  that  constitute  the  soul ; 
So,  at  the  harvest- time,  himself  to  yield 
A  sheaf,  well  ripened,  in  the  Master's  field. 

I  know,  the  world,  time-servient,  disagrees 
"With  vain  ideas  and  heresies  like  these  ; 
I  know  full  well  what  sages  will  dissent 
From  such  a  strain  of  idle  sentiment ; 
I  know  the  proverbs  of  the  worldly-wise, 
What  plans  of  thought  and  action  they  advise  ; 
How  small  the  orbit,  how  confined  the  groove, 
Within  whose  limits  they  exhort  to  move  ; 
But  I  believe,  the  two  extremes  between, 
Our  better  sense  may  find  the  golden  mean. 


THE  TRUE  LIFE.  19 

That  while  avoiding  a  contracted  sphere, 
Which  quite  absorbs  us  in  its  one  idea ; 
And  while,  with  like  disfavor,  we  disown 
The  jack-at-all-trades,  or  the  lazy  drone  ; 
A  liberal  course  our  steps  may  still  pursue, 
To  human  kind,  and  human  nature,  true. 

Poor  slave  of  Mammon  !  though  thy  sordid  brain 
Be  st<  i  jx  (1  with  lust  of  pleasure  or  of  gain; 
Within  thy  bosom  thou  may'st  yet  behold 
A     wealth     more     precious     than     thy    heaps     of 

gold. 

A  gem  so  brilliant,  it  can  far  outshine 
The  choicest  product  of  Golconda's  mine. 
A  vital  spark  from  the  celestial  flame, 
Which  now  and  ever  must  exist  the  same. 
It  is  thy  soul ;  to  slavish  bondage  doomed- 
Nay,  'tis  thyself,  O  man  !  thou  has  entombed ! 
See  with  what  layers  of  avarice  and  of  guilt, 
Thine  own  dark  sepulchre  thyself  hast  built ! 
See  how  thy  purer  hopes  and  joys  have  fled 
To  habitations  of  the  early  dead  ! 
See  life's  sweet  graces,  its  emotions  kind, 
The  holy  tics  that  love  and  friendship  bind ; 
Th'  inspiring  glories  of  creation, — all 
Shut  out  and  banished  from  thy  prison  wall ! 


2Q  POEMS. 

See,  one  by  one,  the  harsh  obstructions  roll 

Before  the  windows  of  thy  buried  soul ! 

One  opening  still  admits  its  ghostly  light, 

To  show  the  ruin,  to  appal  the  sight  ;— 

Ah  !  'tis  thy  faithful  memory  !  would' st  thou  gaze 

Out  from  thy  dungeon  at  those  earlier  days  ? 

One   glance,   remorseful,   sorrowing,   wouldst    thou 

cast 

Along  the  mournful  vista  of  the  past? 
See  then  thy  childhood,  with  its  sports  beguiled  ; 
By  selfish  care  and  avarice  undefiled  ; 
Its  golden  moments,  pure  and  unalloyed, 
In  guileless  thoughts  and  gentle  deeds  employed. 
See  thy  bark  launched  on  youth's  enticing  stream, 
Whose  ripples  glisten  'neath  the  morning  beam  ; 
See  the  glad  banks  in  vernal  freshness  bloom, 
And  flowers  that  breathe  a  ravishing  perfume  ; 
While  Hope — the  siren — to  the  voyager  sings, 
And  beck'ning  onward,  waves  her  shining  wings. 

Well  might  thy  vision  seek  to  linger  there, 

Amid  a  scene  so  bright,  so  passing  fair  ! 

Fain  wouldst  thou  deem  the  picture  all  complete, — 

No  mortal  life  could  hail  a  dawn  more  sweet, — 

But  look  !  how  soon  the  swelling  stream  runs  high, 

The  storm-king  threatens  in  the  angry  sky  ; 


THE  TRUE  LIFK  21 

The  troubled  waves  their  cheerless  banks  divide, 
While  the  sad  Hours  stand  up  on  either  side, 
To  tell  the  number  of  thy  past  misdeeds, 
Like  hooded  friars,  counting  o'er  their  beads  ! 

Could  we  unlock  their  chambers,  and  disclose 
In  human  hearts,  their  multitude  of  woes  ; 
Could  we  but  half  the  agonies  reveal, 
Which  placid  brows  and  studied  smiles  conceal ; 
Our  souls  would  own  the  picture  strangely  true, 
The  faithful  Muse  would  offer  to  the  view. 
Alas  !  how  many  a  wreck  in  human  mould, 
Consumed  with  passion  or  the  lust  of  gold, 
Lives  only  to  pervert  creative  plan, 
And  dies,  the  shameful  counterfeit  of  man  ! 
Our  educations,  and  the  vicious  rules, 
Which  so  obtain  in  Fashion's  latest  schools  ; 
The  standards  of  our  modern  exceDence, 
Tin-  praise  accorded  unto  base  pretence  ; 
The  sycophantic  homage  often  shown 
Toward  foppish  idiots  for  the  wealth  they  own  ; 
The  estimate  of  man  by  what  is  his  ; 
V>\  what  he  has,  and  not  by  what  ho  is  ; 
That  "  aristocracy,"  which  seeks  to  find 
The    wealth    of    purse,    and    not    the    wealth    of 
mind ; 


22  POEMS. 

Which  greets  plain  worth  with  supercilious  laugh, 

But  fawns  obsequious  round  a  golden  calf ; 

That  eager  thirst  for  gold,  which  scruples  not 

At  means  unworthy,  so  it  may  be  got ; 

"Which  buries  all  else  in  a  common  grave, 

And  grudges  time  to  grasp,  and  hoard,  and  save  ; 

These,  with  their  kindred  causes,  serve  to  bind 

And  dwarf  the  nobler  impulses  of  mind. 

These  make  our  life  a  disproportioned  whole, 

And  thwart  the  expectations  of  the  soul. 

Yet  he  who  rashly  ventures  to  assail 

The  social  wrongs  and  vices  which  prevail, 

Is  deemed  a  mad  fanatic,  or  a  fool, 

"Whose  verdant  notions  should  be  sent  to  school. 

'Tis  little  sympathy  the  world  bestows 

On  him  who  seeks  its  follies  to  expose  ; 

And  that  enthusiast,  who  with  ardor  warm, 

Plants,  in  his  dreams,  the  standard  of  reform  ; 

Who  fondly  thinks  to  part  the  clouds  away, 

And  hail  the  dawn  of  the  millennial  da}-, 

May  well  take  heed,  lest  he  erelong  shall  be 

At  Mammon's  shrine,  himself  a  votary. 

For  so  the  world,  with  its  mysterious  charms, 

Our  earlier  impulse  and  intent  disarms, 

That  he  who  first  with  brave  assurance  vows 

Mankind's  amelioration  to  espouse, 


THE  TRUE  LIFE.  23 

Or,  less  combative,  hopes  to  keep  aloof, 
And  shun  the  rabble  'neath  a  quiet  roof, 
Little  by  little,  yields  him  to  the  tide, 
And  downward  floats,  the  motley  crew  beside. 
Thus,  in  his  progress,  proves  the  adage  true, — 
"  Dwellers  at  Rome  must  do  as  Romans  do  !  " 
So  fares  the  world  ; — so,  none  of  Adam's  seed  ; — 
No  rank,  profession,  school,  position,  creed, 
Escapes  from  Mammon's  avaricious  clutch, 
Or  shuns  his  all-contaminating  touch. 
Thus,  in  one  scale,  untrue,  but  still  obeyed, 
Actions  and  motives  everywhere  are  weighed. 
By  one  false  test,  incessantly  applied, 
Man's  Jaily  conduct  is  discus  ed  and  tried. 

All-potent  Mammon  !  like  a  monarch  throned, 
O'er    the    broad    earth    thy    sovereign     power    is 

owned ! 

And — strange  to  tell — where  freedom  vaunteth  most, 
And  counts  her  empire  a  peculiar  boast— 
There  Mammon  holds  his  most  distinguished  court, 
Where  willing  subjects  faithfully  resort. 
There,  abject  mortals,  servient  'neath  his  nod, 
Acknowledge  him  their  ruler  and  their  god. 
There,  too,  he  finds,  to  guard  his  regal  state, 
On  every  hand  a  zealous  advocate. 


24  POEMS. 

As  some  rich  rogue,  his  knaveries  to  hide, 

Keeps  able  counsel  ever  at  his  side, 

Retained,  their  skill  and  eloquence  to  lend, 

Their  client's  fame  and  fortune  to  defend  ; 

To    blink    the    point,    and    make    "  His    Honor " 

see 

Vast  odds  'twixt  tweedle-dum  and  tweedle-dee  ; — 
So  Mammon  lacks  not,  in  these  latter  days, 
A  host  of  minions  who  can  chant  his  praise, 
Extol  his  glories,  magnify  his  fame, 
And  fling  the  cloak  of  custom  o'er  his  shame. 

And  so  the  Press,  whose  once  united  tone 
Might  drive  each  despot  from  his  lawless  throne ; 
Whose  voice,  concordant  for  the  truth  and  right, 
The  world  might  rescue  from  its  moral  blight — 
Perverts  its  power ;  and  busily  repeats 
The  idle  talk  and  jabber  of  the  streets. 
Panders  to  passion,  and  to  morbid  taste ; 
Observes  the  current,  and  with  eager  haste 
Adopts  the  tenets  of  the  winning  side, 
And  floats  conspicuous  with  the  rushing  tide. 
Confined  by  ties  of  party,  or  of  sect, 
The  general  weal  it  cares  not  to  effect ; 
Of  demagogues  and  knaves  the  pliant  tool, 
And  selfish  interest  its  guiding  rule, 


THE  TRUE  LIFE.  25 

It  aims  the  public  ear  to  tickle  well, 
And  make  the  paper,  or  the  volume,  sell. 

Nay,  e'en  the  Pulpit — such  is  Mammon's  power — 
Shapes  oft  its  tenets  to  the  passing  hour ; 
Its  doctrine  moulds  to  suit  the  hearers'  views, 
And,  like  a  mirror,  must  reflect  the  pews. 
Here,  where  we  look  for  Truth's  peculiar  source — 
"Where  thought  from   time  should  hold  its  brief  di- 
vorce ; 

Whither  approaching,  with  a  reverent  awe, 
To  hear  God's  word,  and  learn  his  sacred  law, 
The  world's  concerns  and  cares  should  ne'er  intrude, 
But  hearts  should  flow  with  love  and  gratitude  ; 
Where  all  should  meet — high,  humble,  rich  and  poor, 
And  leave  their  false  distinctions  at  the  door  ; — 
As  worms,  alike  predestined,  and  for  whom 
The  same  great  Leveler  opens  wide  the  tomb  ; — 
See,  even  here,  with  patronizing  smile, 
How  Mammon,  proud  and  pompous,  treads  the  aisle  ! 
And  sits  quiescent,  with  a  slumberous  eye, 
While  Reverend  Cream  Cheese  hums  a  lullaby. 
Here  Fashion's  votaries,  in  a  vast  array, 
Convene  to  hold  their  weekly  gala-day ; 
And  while  the  sinners  for  forgiveness  sue, 
Their  hats  and  floune«  in  sharp  review  1 


OK  THB 

RSITT 


• 


25  POEMS. 

"Go  search  through  Christendom  where'er  we  may, 

We  witness  Mammon's  universal  sway. 

In  each  department  of  our  social  state, 

He  stamps  his  impress  with  a  crushing  weight ; 

And  leads  his  subjects  passively  along, 

A  blinded  duped,  infatuated  throng  ! 

Ah  1  when  will  mortals  from  their  follies  turn, 

The  simple  theory  of  life  to  learn  ? 

With  faithful  vision  see  and  own  a  truth, 

Which  nature  shows  us  in  our  early  youth  ; 

Regard  life  only  for  its  nobler  ends, 

And  live  as  brothers,  and  as  generous  friends  ; 

As  fellow-travelers  toward  that  common  bourne, 

From  whose  mysterious  confines  none  return. 

My  hope  is  slender — but  I  can  conceive 

How  man  his  social  errors  might  retrieve ; 

Pursue  a  course  by  selfish  care  unvexed, 

And  so  spend  this  life  as  t'  insure  the  next. 

I  can  conceive  a  social  state,  wherein 

The  strifes,  the  bickerings,  the  discordant  din, 

Insane  excitements,  mutual  distrusts, 

Unholy  passions  and  unbridled  lusts, — 

Might  all  be  banished  from  our  midst  away, 

And  Reason  hold  her  kind  and  gentle  sway. 

"  There  is  no  joy  but  calm,  the  spirit  sings, 

Why  should  we  toil,  the  roof  and  crown  of  things  ! " 


THE  TRUE  LIFE.  27 

Could  we  our  possibilities  but  see, 

How  near  a  Heaven  this  earth  of  ours  might  be  ! 

Behold  its  glories,  lavishly  outspread 

Around  us,  and  beneath,  and  overhead  ! 

Mark  how,  as  myriad  eyes,  whose  glance  is  love, 

The  stars  smile  down  upon  us  from  above  ; 

And  softly  close  their  eyelids,  one  by  one, 

As  through  the  startled  ether  soars  the  sun  ; 

His  coursers  guiding  o'er  the  vast  highway, 

That  spans  from  East  to  West,  the  realms  of  Day  ! 

.  o'er  the  face  of  this  terrestrial  ball, — 
In  hill,  and  vale,  and  lake,  and  waterfall ; 
In  fountain,  river,  rill  and  ocean  wave  ; 
In  mountain-dome,  and  hoary  cliiY  and  eave  ; 
In  tree  and  shrub, — in  foliage  and  in  flower  ; 
In  shady  grove,  and  in  sequestered  bower  ; 
In  rolling  prairies,  and  in  grassy  glades, 
AVhat  wondrous  beauty  everything  pervades! 
Then  see,  responsive  to  a  moderate  toil, 
How  Plenty  leaps  out  from  the  teeming  soil ! 
How  Earth  from  out  her  rich,  exhaustless  stores, 
Yields  up  her  minerals  and  her  shining  ores  ; — 
Her  varied  products,  neither  sparse  nor  few, 
Enough  for  comfort  and  for  luxury  too. 
Kind  Nature  meant  not  that  a  single  one 
Of  all  her  children,  'neath  her  generous  sun, 


28  POEMS. 

Should  starve  ;  or  suffer  from  the  galling  chain, 
"Which  "Want  imposes  in  its  cruel  reign ; 
While  some  proud  neighbor,  with  a  wealth  untold, 
Should  hoard  his  treasures  of  superfluous  gold — 
The  fruit  of  speculation,  out  of  which 
He  woke  some  morning  to  be  labeled  "  rich  "• 
'Twas  never  meant  that  some  should  pampered  be, 
While  others  feel  the  pinch  of  poverty  ; 
That  mother  Earth,  upon  her  fruitful  breast, 
Should    surfeit    half    her    babes,    and    starve    the 
rest  1 

Methinks  some  strange  perversion  hath  been  wrought 

From  that  original  creative  Thought, 

Which  turned  to  shape  in  Earth,  and  gave  control 

To  Man,  as  lord  and  ruler  of  the  whole. 

A  strange  perversion,  which,  increasing  through 

The  lapse  of  ages  since  the  world  was  new^ 

Hath  come  to  make  of  this  our  social  life, 

A  scene  of  jealous  and  discordant  strife  ; 

To  make  our  race  to  false  restraints  conform, 

And  one  worm  lord  it  o'er  his  fellow-worm. 

This  man,  to-day,  exults  in  pride  and  power, 

Pet  child  of  fate,  and  hero  of  the  hour. 

With  cool  disdain  he  treats  the  humble  poor, 

Who  turn,  awe-stricken,  from  the  rich  man's  door. 


THE  TRUE  LIFE.  29 

But  mark  how  Fortune  with  its  fickle  glow, 

Loves  to  dispense  alternate  weal  and  woe. 

Another  generation  turns  the  scale  ; 

The  poor  grow  rich  ;  the  wealthy  bankers  fail ; 

And  they,  whose  fathers,  only  yesterday, 

With  golden  sceptre  held  a  potent  sway, 

Now  in  their  turn  pursue  the  walks  of  toil, 

While  beggars'  offspring  occupy  the  soil. 

Our    life's     a    see-saw,    marked    with    ups    and 

downs ; 

A  curious  mixture,  both  of  smiles  and  frowns  ; 
A  treacherous  sea,  whose  surface,  calm  to-day, 
Yawns  wide  to-morrow  to  engulph  its  prey. 
And  yet,  strange  man!  unschooled  through  all  the 

years, 

Along  whose  course  life's  vanity  appears, 
The  will-o'-wisp  of  fortune  still  pursues, 
The  self  same  chase  persistently  renews. 
Lives,  not  to  gather  that  substantial  good, 
Which  shall  go  with  him  o'er  the  Stygian  flood ; 
Not  those  possessions,  which  shall  last  sublime, 
Beyond  the  empire  and  the  waste  of  time  : 
Not  that  ripe  soul,  which,  rising  o'er  the  sod, 
In  full  perfection  shall  ascend  to  God  ; 
But  such  mere  baubles  as  the  hour  affords, 
With  tireless  zeal  and  industry,  ho  hoards ; 


30  POEMS. 

Pursues  each  worthless  phantom  as  it  flies ; 
And  so  toils  on,  till  that  last  enterprise 
Of  getting  buried,  claims  the  shrinking  thought, 
And  one  word  tells  his  simple  record — "  Nought !" 

If  half  the  hours  we  toil  were  set  apart 

For  generous  culture  of  the  mind  and  heart ; 

If,  while  sojourning  on  time's  transient  shore, 

We  trifled  less,  and  thought  and  felt  the  more ; 

If  all  united  with  an  equal  zeal 

In  temporal  duties  for  the  common  weal ; 

And  not  as  now,  one  labored  to  excess, 

While  his  rich  brother  lolled  in  idleness  ; 

If  all  reserved,  from  daily  cares  aside, 

An  ample  leisure,  wisely  occupied  ; 

The  world,  methinks,  would  still  move  on  apace, 

And  healthier  progress  would  attend  the  race. 

Our  art,  and  science,  and  inventive  skill ; 

The   loom,   the    sledge,   the    plow-share    and    the 

mill, 

The  calls  of  industry  on  land  and  main, 
Would  still  invoke  their  patrons  not  in  vain. 
Then  most,  I  ween,  of  progress  we  should  find 
In  the  rich  growth  and  onward  march  of  mind  ; 
In  the  rare  studies  which  so  well  impart 
The  choicest  graces  to  the  human  heart ; 


THE  TRUE  LIFK  31 

In  the  sweet  social  pleasures,  kindly  given 

As  earthly  foretastes  of  the  joys  of  Heaven. 

A  life  more  real,  earnest,  manly,  free, 

This  life  ideal  we  should  find  to  be. 

Peace,    like    a    river,    through    our    midst    would 

flow, 

And  earth  become  a  paradise  below. 
The  same  great  Power  that  ovemdeth  all ; 
Fashions  the  orbs,  and  notes  the  sparrow's  fall; 
That  bids  us  for  the  morrow  take  no  thought, 
But  seize  the  boon  the  present  hour  hath  brought ; 
For  man's  necessities  would  still  dispense 
The  boundless  favors  of  Omnipotence. 
And  if,  perchance,  each  temporal  estate 
Should  yield  its  increase  at  a  slower  rate ; 
If  unto  each,  with  competence  content, 
His  capital  should  yi<  Id  a  loss  per  cent ; 

B  and  continent  should  greet  our  eyes 
"With  fewer  fruits  of  worldly  enterprise  : 
Yet  if,  instead,  to  bless  the  human  race, 
More  thought,  more  love,  and  charity  had  place  ; 
If  all  within  this  mighty  brotherhood 
Preferred  the  lasting  to  the  transient  good ; 
Such  would    be   wisdom's    part ;    and    we    might 

then 
Have  poorer  fabrics,  but  have  better  men. 


32  POEMS. 

There  is  who  hatli  not,  yet  hath  wealth  untold — 
Better  than  rubies,  or  than  shining  gold. 
There  is  who  hath,  and  yet  so  poor  is  he, 
No  words  can  show  his  depth  of  poverty. 
There  is  a  solid  wealth,  which  hath  no  end, 
Which    pays    its    dividends    though    banks    sus- 
pend ; 

And  whose  possessor,  though  a  peasant's  son, 
Consorts  with  nobles,  and  himself  is  one. 
Give    mo    this    wealth,    and    though     in    humble 

sphere 

I  keep  my  calling  while  I  sojourn  here ; 
Yet  not  the  gold  of  Ophir,  nor  the  gems 
From  India's  cave,  nor  royal  diadems 
Can  buy  the  passport  I  shall  bear  with  me, 
To  earth's  and  heaven's  "  best  society." 
There  is  a  sweet  refreshment  in  the  thought 
Of  dignity  too  precious  to  be  bought. 
There  is  a  badge  of  manhood,  whoso  owns, 
May  scorn  distinctions,  and  look  down  on  thrones  ; 
Despise  conventional  decrees  and  rules, 
And  bear  complacently  the  sneers  of  fools. 
The  man  wrho  entertains  within  his  breast 
A  ducal  Soul,  as  an  abiding  guest, 
Accounts  no  honor  paramount  to  that : 
He  is  your  only  true  aristocrat. 


THE  TRUE  LIFE.  33 

All  things  are  his  ;  liis  park  is  the  whole  land  ;  * 
His  bath  the  sea,  his  walk  the  ocean  strand  ; 
The  forests  and  the  rivers  he  shall  own ; 
The  mountain  summit  is  his  lofty  throne  ; 
He  shall  possess,  where,  in  their  little  day, 
Others  as  tenants,  and  as  boarders,  stay. 
He  shall  be  lord  of  land,  and  sea,  and  air  ; 
Where  e'er  snow  falls,  or  water  flows,  or  where 
The  birds  take  joyous  wing  the  dawn  to  greet ; 
Where  day  and  night  in  sombre  twilight  meet ; 
Where  e'er  the  heaven  is  hung  with  cloudy  forms, 
Or  sown  with  stars,  or  terrible  with  storms ; 
Where  e'er  are  outlets  into  space  above  ; 
Where  e'er  is  danger,  wonder,  awe,  or  love  ; 
There  sheddeth  beauty,  plenteous  as  the  rain, 
For  him,  proud  monarch  of  the  vast  domain. 
Each  voice,  for  him,  shall  have  a  meaning  sound ; 
And  though  ho  walk  the  spacious  earth  around ; 
He  shall  discover  in  each  proffered  boon, 
Nothing  ignoble,  or  inopportune. 

Cease  now,  my  muse,  thy  unaccustomed  strain, 
And  seek  thine  old  retirement  once  again. 

*  This,  and  the  following  nineteen  lines,  are  a  paraphrase  of 
an  extract  from  B.  W.  Emersor's  Essay,  ~<  The  Poet 


34  POEMS. 

If  thou  has  uttered  but  one  earnest  word, 
These  list'ning  friends  have  treasured  as  they  heard ; 
If  one  true  sentiment  thou  hast  expressed, 
Which  finds  an  answering  echo  in  each  breast ; 
Then  well  hast  thou  performed  the  pleasing  task, 
And  vouchsafed  all  thy  humble  bard  could  ask. 

S.  B.  S. 


MUSIC.  35 


MUSIC. 

THERE'S  music  in  the  winds  : 
"Whether  they  whisper  gently  thro'  the  trees, 
Or  sweep  tempestuous  across  the  seas, 
Or  waft  sweet  perfumes  in  tho  evening  breeze  ; 

There's  music  in  the  winds. 

There's  music  in  the  streams  : 
That  break  their  waters  down  the  craggy  steep, 
Or  o'er  the  shining  pebbles  gaily  leap, 
Or  seaward  roll,  in  channels  broad  and  deep ; — 

There's  music  in  the  streams. 

There's  music  in  tho  fields  : 
Tho  verdant  meads  that  stretch  across  the  plain, 
Tho  sloping  hill-side,  orchard,  pasture,  lane, 
Tho  crops  of  yellow  corn  and  waving  grain  ; 

There's  music  in  the  fields. 

There's  music  in  the  woods  : 
The  wildernesses  where  the  fleet  hind  roves, 
Tho  sighing  pine-cliffs  and  tho  vocal  groves, 
Where  bird-choirs  hymn  their  praises,  plaints,  and 
loves ; — 

There's  music  in  the  woods. 


36  POEMS. 

There's  music  in  the  sea  : 
The  diapason  of  old  Ocean's  roar, 
Whose  wild  waves  in  perpetual  encore 
Kehearse  their  glad  Te  Deum  evermore  ; — 

There's  music  in  the  sea. 

There's  music  in  the  storms  : 
That  run  their  courses  over  heaven's  highway, 
And  turn  the  day  to  night — the  night  to  day  ; 
Whose  thunders  rattle,  and  whose  lightnings  play  ;- 

There's  music  in  the  storms. 

There's  music  in  the  stars  : 
That  fair  Astarte's  queenly  robes  adorn ; 
That  sang  together  at  creation's  morn, 
When,  at  Jehovah's  mandate,  Earth  was  born  ; — 

There's  music  in  the  stars. 

There's  music  through  the  whole 
Of  Nature's  realm ;  around,  beneath,  above  ; 
Where  e'er  our  eyes  we  turn — where  e'er  we  rove  ;- 
But  sweetest  of  all  music  far,  is  LOVE  : 

The  music  of  the  soul ! 

S.  B.  S. 


3  R4 

THB 

^RSITT 
THE  IRRETRIEVABLE.          ^^^ 

THE  IEKETEIEYABLE. 

THE  sun  is  falling  in  the  west ; 

His  last  beams  cut  the  billow's  crest, 

Snow-white  with  the  glistening  foam  ; 
For  the  choicest  waters  are  filtered  up 
To  the  rolling  brim  of  old  Neptune's  cup, 

As  the  sea-bird's  welcome  home ; 
And  the  Fleet- Wing's  sails  are  gaily  drest 
With  the  rainbow  tints,  so  fondly  prest 

On  the  gracefully  swelling  dome. 

The  grand  old  clouds  drawn  closely  round, 
Present  the  Day-king,  enthroned  and  crowned, 

In  his  fullest  glory  dying  ; 
And  to  travel  that  beautiful  silver  road 
To  the  golden  gate  of  my  Lord's  abode, 

The  spirit  is  sorrowfully  sighing ! 
*  *  *  * 

The  sun  is  set ;  his  work  is  done  ; 
And  the  timid  moon  has  just  begun 

To  cast  her  shadows,  thin  and  pale, 
As  I  take  my  watch  on  the  gallant  deck, 
To  descry  the  distant  loom  or  speck, 

That  betokens  land  or  sail. 


38  POEMS. 

Now  the  sea  runs  high,  and  the  sweeping  blast 
With  its  angry  stroke  sways  the  mizzen-mast ; 

Every  timber  crackles  sharp  ; 
And  hark !  on  the  quivering  shroud  and  stay, 
Old  Boreas'  icy  fingers  play 
In  mournful  numbers,  and  numbers  gay; 

0  list  to  the  sailor's  harp  ! 

1  welcome  the  hour,  so  fit  for  thought 

On  what  the  past  with  its  woes  has  wrought ; 
I  mark — with  what  grief ! — how  awfully  fraught 

Was  the  simplest  word  and  deed  ; 
Ay,  the  crisis  acts  of  my  life  are  known 
From  the  lowliest  impulse  and  hope  to  have  grown- 
In  a  heedless  hour  was  widely  strown 

The  poisonous,  blasting  seed. 

But  no  !  this  night  I  will  banish  care, — 
The  heavens  above  are  transcendently  fair, — 
My  soul,  like  the  orbs  that  are  glittering  there 

Above  the  troublous  waves, 
That  once  and  now  against  me  beat, 
Shall  rise,  and  gaze,  but  only  greet 
The  pleasant  sea,  the  temperate  sheet ; 
Alone  the  forms  and  faces  meet 
Which  in  old  times  did  seem  so  sweet, 
That  now  I  scarcely  dare  repeat, — 


THE  IRRETRIEVABLE.  39 

"  Some  sleep  !    I  know  the  vacant  seat  1 
I've  seen  the  grass-grown  graves ! " 

From  earliest  hours  my  life  I  trace  ; 
And  halting  memory's  rapid  pace, — 
I  linger  round  each  cherished  place ; 
I  kiss  each  bending,  tearful  face  ; — 

Low,  soothing,  deep-breathed  peace. 
I  mind  me  of  the  gladsome  child 
On  whom  a  tender  mother  smiled ; 
A  boy  by  purest  sports  beguiled  ; 
Whose  heart,  uncankered,  undefiled, 

From  Faith  knew  no  release. 

I  wake.     "  O  Heaven  ! "  I  almost  scream — 
"  Prolong  this  soul-enrapturing  dream  ! 
What  I  have  been,  but  let  mo  seem! 
At  the  first  fountains  of  Time's  stream, 
To  catch  a  single  passing  beam 

Of  Innocency,  let  me  lie  ! " 
Like  a  half-drowned  wretch  I  rise, 
And  far  beyond  the  gathering  skies, 
A  cruel  fiend  returns  my  cries ; 
My  God  the  craved  boon  denies ; 
I  gasp  with  downcast,  tearful  eyes, 

"  Would  God  that  I  could  die !" 


40  POEMS. 

I  never  more  shall  dare  contrast 
The  present  woe  with  the  lovely  past. 
My  doom  is  sealed ;  the  die  is  cast ; 
I  cannot  differ  from  the  last. 
For  hark !     Hear  the  heavy  death-bells  toll ! 
And  look  !  How  the  dead  possibilities  roll 
In  a  long  dark  line  to  the  Judgment  goal ! 
This  day,  this  hour  with  judgments  is  foal ; 
But  the  joys  of  my  youth  shed  the  gloom  of  my  soul  I 

0.  A.  S. 

FLEETWING,  at  Sea,  off  Cape  ) 
Horn,  September  6,  1856.   f 


A  VALENTINE.  41 


A  VALENTINE. 

LADY,  'twas  on  this  day, 
As  old  traditions  say, 

That  Love  was  born. 
It  was  a  gladsome  birth, 
Fit  cause  for  joy  and  mirth 
Among  the  sons  of  Earth — 

A  race  forlorn. 

On  this,  his  natal  day, 

Young  Cupid — blithe  and  gay — 

His  pastime  takes. 
The  cause  of  Love  ho  fights ; 
Fond  hearts  in  bliss  unites ; 
The  torch  of  Hymen  lights ; 

Its  flame  awakes. 

His  well-directed  dart 

Has  pierced  mo ;  and  my  heart 

Beats  tremulous. 
O,  Lady,  may  thine  own 
Beat  in  sweet  unison, 
And  Love's  pure  flame  alone 

Be  born  in  us ! 

S.  B.  S. 


42  POEMS. 


VALENTINE— TO  L . 

I  WISH  that  I  could  say  to  you 
The  words  that  would  convey  to  you 

The  measure  of  my  love  ; 
But  language  isn't  strong  enough, 
Nor  are  our  meetings  long  enough, 
Nor  are  there  strains  of  song  enough 

Its  height  and  depth  to  prove. 

'Tis  that  which  causeth  pain  for  me ; 
'Tis  so  entirely  vain  for  me 

To  utter  all  I  feel ; 
And  I  am  conscious  all  the  while, 
As  we  the  charming  hours  beguile, 
How  somewhat  doubtingly  you  smile 

At  what  I  can't  reveal. 

O,  I  am  sure,  that  if  you  knew, 

And  read  my  inmost  feelings  through, 

You  could  but  yield  return 
Of  love  for  love  ;  which,  come  what  will, 
Through  all  the  future  can  but  thrill 
This  heart ;  and  on  its  altars  still, 

Forevermore  shall  burn ! 

S.  B.  S. 


ONE  VALENTINE'S  NIGHT.  43 


ONE  VALENTINE'S  NIGHT. 

WHAT  long  ago  I  might  have  read — 

Had  fortified  myself  to  know — 
So  long  the  waiting  deadened  dread, 

And  friendship's  hopes  began  to  grow — 

But  yesternight,  while  conning  o'er 

A  journal  from  the  dear  old  place, 
I  saw — what  I  had  skipped  before — 

The  grieving  tidings,  face  to  face  ! 

I'd  held  the  paper  as  a  screen 

Against  the  blazing  on  the  hearth  ; 

But  when  I  sa\v  what  was  between — 
Two  aged  deaths  and  one  small  birth — 

My  hands  dropped  with  a  nerveless  grasp  ; 

I  stared  into  the  very  flame  ; 
Then  wonder  if  my  crimson  cheeks 

Were  scorched  with  fire  or  flushed  with  shame. 

Th<  desert  winds  blow  in  a  moan  ! 

The  good  flag's  halliards  whip  the  staff ; — 
The  one — the  music  of  a  groan,— 

And  one,  the  mocking  of  a  laugh. 


44  POEMS. 

Let  the  derisive  sounds  concert 

Suggestive,  tantalizing  chants ; 
In  pauses  we  may  introvert, 

And  spring  a  strength  from  Nature's  taunts. 

Out  of  a  sadness  may  we  bring 
A  nameless  sweetness,  which  belongs 

To  olden  times,  and  takes  the  sting 
From  sighs  and  semblances  of  wrongs. 

Though  much  has  passed  to  leave  regret, 
Some  cherished  memories  remain  ; 

The  woe  I  brave  or  can  forget : 
Blow,  dreary  winds,  across  the  plain  ! 

C.  A.  S. 

FORT  CHURCHILL,  NEV.  TER.,  \ 
February  14,  1864.     f 


AFTER  A  LOVER'S  QUARREL.  45 

AFTEE  A  LOYEE'S  QUAEEEL. 

Ox  her  brow,  clouds  of  anger  were  blended, 

While  sorrow  sat  heavy  on  mine  ; 
In  a  mad  moment  I  had  offended, 

And  she  bade  me  depart  from  her  shrine  ; — 
A  shrino  I  so  fondly  had  knelt  at, 

And  decked  with  my  darlingest  flowers  ; 
A  shrine  I  in  rupture  hud  dwelt  at, 

In  my  life's  most  enrapturing  hours. 

And  so  I  go  forth,  sad  and  lonely, — 

Tormenting  regret  in  my  soul ; — 
Sweet  fruit  turned  to  ashes  ;  and  only 

A  wretchedness  passing  control. 
And  so  all  rny  path  seems  o'ershaded, 

And  the  saddest  of  lessons  I  learn ; 
And  I  mourn  with  a  conscience  upbraided, 
t  joys  that  may  never  return. 

One  hope  I  shall  timidly  cherish  ;— 

It  is  in  her  bosom  to  find 
A  heart,  which,  though  love  itself  perish, 

Can  never  be  other  than  kind  : 
A  heart  so  forgiving  and  tender, 

No  hate  can  endure  there  long  while. 
O,  Heaven,  from  all  ill  defend  her ! 

O  God  !  change  her  frown  to  a  sinilo ! — S.  B.  S. 


46  POEMS. 

ODE; 

SUNG   AT    FOURTH    OF    JULY  CELEBRATION,    GREAT   BAB- 
RINGTON,  MASS.,  JULY  4TH,  1850. 

(Am  : — "America.") 

WITH  joy  we  celebrate 

This  day,  from  which  we  date 

Our  Nation's  birth ; 
Day  when  that  patriot  band 
For  freedom  took  their  stand, 
And  made  Columbia's  land 

The  pride  of  earth. 

This  day,  let  East  and  West, 
With  equal  favors  blest, 

Sing  freedom's  song ; 
Let  North  and  South,  to-day, 
Cast  all  their  strife  away, 
And,  joined  in  glad  array, 

The  strain  prolong. 

Stayed  be  the  impious  hands 
That  seek  to  hurl  the  brands 

Of  discord  round ; 
Still  let  our  rallying  cry 
Of  "  Union  "  rise  on  high, 


ODE.  47 

Till  regions  far  and  nigh 
Shall  catch  the  sound. 

God  !  'neath  whose  watchful  eye, 
All  things  in  earth  and  sky 

.     Fulfill  their  end  ; 
Guide  Thou  our  Ship  of  State 
Secure  through  Peril's  strait ; 
Still  grant  propitious  fate, 
And  still  defend ! 

So  shall  its  towering  form, 
Unscathed  through  wind  and  storm 

Bide  on  its  way  ; 
Our  favored  land  shall  be 
The  home  of  liberty  ; 
Her  sons  shall  worship  Thee, 

And  Thee  obey. 

S.  B.  S. 


48  POEMS. 


WHY  I  WEEP. 

I  WEEP  as  I  look  on  thee,  obdurate  fair  one, 
So  lavish  of  smiles,  and  so  charming  to  view ; 
So  ready  in  meshes  of  love  to  ensnare  one, 
And  leave  him  heart-broken,  to  find  thee  untrue. 

I  weep  as  I  think  the  bright  dreams  of  to-day 
Must  give  place  to  regretful  awak'ning  to-morrow  ; 
That  these  pleasure-wing'd  moments  so  soon  must 

away, 
And   the    sunshine    of    love    be    o'erclouded   with 

sorrow. 

I  weep  as  I  think  that  the  heart  I  so  prize 

Is  reserved   for  some   other,  more  favored,  more 

blest; 
That  some  other  shall  bask  in  the  light  of  those 

eyes, 
Of  those  heavenly  smiles  for  a  lifetime  possessed. 

So,  whenever  henceforth  thou  beholdest  me  weeping, 
O  think  of  the  heart  that  implores  to  be  thine  ; 
Of  the  tender  affections  consigned  to  thy  keeping, 
And  the  pure  vows  I  fain  would  present  at  thy 
shrine. 


WHY  I  WEEP.  49 

And,  whenever  thy  'kerchief  to  mine  waves  reply, 
And  thine  eyes  beam  upon  me  like  beams  of  the 

sun, 
I  will  shed  one  more  tear,  I  will  heave  one  more 

sigh, 
For  I  feel  thou  art  jesting,  and  only  in  fun. 

S.  B.  S. 


50  POEMS. 


VALENTINE. 

CBUEL  one !  it's  hardly  fair 
Thus  to  steal  one's  heart,  I  say ! 
'Tis  a  treasure  quite  too  rare 
To  be  wrested  thus  away. 
Have  some  mercy,  pr'ythee,  do ! 
And  the  stolen  heart  restore. 

T    » 

Henceforth,  then,  I  promise  you, 
I'll  expose  myself  no  more. 

Or,  if  you  should  think  it  best, 
In  return  to  give  me  thine  ; 
So  we'll  let  the  matter  rest, 
I'll  take  yours,  and  you  keep  mine. 
Or,  (I'm  not  disposed  to  falter, 
Since  this  mischief  is  begun.) 
Drawing  near  to  Hymen's  altar, 
Let  us  join  them  both  in  one  ! 

S.  B.  S. 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  SOYS.  51 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  BOYS. 

HURRA  boys !  Life's  conflict  is  opening  before  us ; 

"With  many  a  foe  to  be  valiantly  met ; 

Let   our   banner   be   raised,   let   it   proudly  wave 

o'er  us; 
"With  firm  hearts   and   true,   we'll   be   conquerors 

yet!'/ 

Press  on  without  fear,— all  forebodings  dispelled, 
By  doubts  undismayed,  nor  by  menaces  awed  ; — 
Press  on,  nor  let  action,  nor  struggle  be  quelled, 
While  Error  and  Vice  are  seen  stalking  abroad. 

High  stations  of  honor  are  waiting  us  now ; 

Proud    triumphs,    and    lasting    rewards    may    be 

ours; 

And  anon,  shall  adorn  each  victorious  brow 
The  evergreen  wreath,  decked  with  Fame's  fairest 

flowers. 

Our  fathers  before  us  fought  nobly  and     --^~- 
Be  it  ours  to  continue  what  they  have  be^un  ;    OF  THB 
So  that  history's  page  alike  proudly  111213'  tell 
Of  the  patriot  sire,  and  the  patriot  son. 


52  POEMS. 

Then  let's  on  to  the  strife,  boys !  our  banners  un- 
furled,— 

Our  weapons  unsheathed,  and  our  bright  armor  on  ; 

Let  our  watch- word  be  truth ;  let  our  field  be  the 
world, 

In  the  triumph  of  right  be  the  victory  won  ! 

S.  B.  S. 


IRELAND'S  OPPORTUNITY,  53 

IRELAND'S  OPPORTUNITY. 

A  YANKEE'S  ADDRESS  TO  THE  FENIANS. 

How  LONG  have  ye  cherished  for  Erin,  in  vain, 
The  hope  to  behold  her  a  nation  again  ? 
How  long  on  her  neck  is  the  Britisher's  heel  ? 
How  long  has  his  mocking  returned  her  appeal  ? 

Lo !  now  is  the  day-spring,  ye  pris'ners  of  Hope ! 
The  strength  of  your  arms  with  the  tyrants  may 

cope; 
For  the  vows  of  our  land  with  this  promise   are 

thrilled  : 
The  woe-time  of  Erin  is  nearly  fulfilled. 

When  the  tocsin  of  war  from  our  brothers  went  forth, 
And  the  patriots  poured  from  their  homes  in  the 

North; 
'Hong  the  first  in  the  line,  with  their  Banner  of 

Green, 
Were  the  boys  who  court-martialed  the  son  of  a 

Queen. 

And  on  the  first  field  that  our  soldiers  contest — 
Undisciplined,  though  of  the  bravest  and  best — 


54  POEMS. 

Waving  far  in  the  van,  lone  in  triumph  was  seen, 
By    the    Flag    of    our   Country,    that    banner    of 
Green ! 

From  Hatteras  Inlet  to  Lexington's  streams, 
The  Ensign  of  Erin  exultingly  gleams  ; 
At  Yicksburg  and  Hudson  'tis  dauntless  unfurled, 
Up  the  cloud-circled  mountain  resistlessly  hurled ! 

In  Sherman's  grand  marching  it  heads  a  brigade  ; 
In  skirmish  or  battle,  manoeuvre  or  raid ; 
From  Generals  commanding,  to  privates  in  file, 
You  may  number  the  sons  of  the  Emerald  Isle ! 

Shall  we  fail  to  remember,  now  Peace  has  re- 
turned, 

Their  fame  in  our  vict'ries  so  valiantly  earned  ? 

Shall  we  fail  to  remember  "Neutrality's  Queen," 

By  supporting  the  yeomen  now  "wearing  the 
green?" 

Oh,  no!  Speed  the  time  when  the  Briton  must 
yield 

To  Fenian  and  Yankee  the  freedom-lit  field ! 

"When  his  plunder  our  Nation  will  make  him  dis- 
gorge, 

Or  tear  from  his  bunting  the  cross  of  St.  George  ! 


IRELAND'S  OPPORTUNITY.  55 

And  when  from  our  Navy  each  ocean  shall  be 
To  the  commerce  of  England  a  bottomless  sea : 
As  our  Flag  from  the  spankers  of  frigates  are  seen, 
While  the  mast  flies  the  Harp-blazoned  Banner  of 

Green ! 

C.  A.  S. 

VIRGINIA  CITY,  Nov.  23.  1865. 


56  POEMS. 

TO  HELEN. 

Now  pr'ythee,  dear  Nell, 

Don't  affect  sucli  a  swell, 
Nor  take  on  in  such  terrible  fashion  : 

I've  told  you  before, 

That  it  vexes  me  sore, 
When  I  see  a  sweet  face  in  a  passion. 

I  think  it's  too  bad, 

You  should  go  and  get  mad, 

And  that,  too,  in  despite  of  my  coaxing — 
I  really  supposed, 
When  at  first  you  disclosed 

So  much  anger,  you  only  were  hoaxing. 

But  be  this  as  it  may  : 

If  it  be  as  you  say — 
And  I  certainly  hav'n't  a  doubt  of  it — 

I  mean  to  hold  fast 

To  the  fun  that  is  past, 
And  I  know  that  you  can't  cheat  me  out  of  it. 

Until  life's  sun  is  set, 
I  shall  never  forget 
How  with  love  we  were,  both  of  us,  dying  : 


TO  HELEN.  57 

How  I  vowed  to  be  true, 
And,  sweet  rogue,  so  did  you, 
And  we  knew  all  the  time  each  was ! ! ! 

So,  Nelly,  good-bye ! 

Do  not  squander  a  sigh, 
Nor  in  sad  melancholy  grow  thinner : 

For  how  shameful  'twould  be, 

If  you  did  so  for  me, 
Such  a  vile,  irreclaimable  sinner ! 

Now,  don't  fling  away 

A  poor  "  minstrel's  last  lay," 
But  remember  to  what  cause  you  owe  it ; 

But  for  this  fuss  alone, 

You  might  never  have  known 
That  your  "  dearest  of  friends  "  was  a  poet. 

S.  B.  S. 


58  POEMS. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  YEAE. 

THE  blighted  flower,  the  rustling  leaf, 
The  mournful  winds  that  round  us  sigh, 

Are  tokens  all  of  Nature's  grief, 

That  summer's  past,  and  winter  nigh. 

The  King  of  Day,  so  bright  erewhile, 
From  his  high  station  looking  down, 

Seems  hardly  to  vouchsafe  a  smile, 
But  sends  aslant  a  sullen  frown. 

To  kindlier  climes  the  timid  bird 
Hies  with  his  fond  and  gentle  mate  ; 

No  longer  is  their  warbling  heard, 
But  all  is  drear  and  desolate  ! 

So  dies  the  year !  its  death  how  sad  ! 

But  'tis  not  sadness  of  despair  ; 
For  spring  again  the  earth  shall  glad, 

Nature  her  robes  of  green  shall  wear. 

So,  though  our  life  must  pass  away, 

While  time  speeds  on  with  restless  wing ; 

Our  souls  shall  hail  a  brighter  day, 
And  flourish  in  eternal  spring. 

S.  B.  S. 


HOPE.  59 

HOPE. 

WHERE  does  he  live  who  cries  "  No  lack  ; " 

Who  lives  not  lacking  all  ? 
Who  sends  his  faithful  memory  searching  back, 

And  ferrets  out  a  hope  that  he  may  call 
In  very  truth,  one  fully  met  ? 

A  yearning  with  a  trust, 
Chaste,  dignified,  high  set, — 

Else  'twere  no  hope,  but  lust. 

We  never  have  our  true  desires  ; 

We  hardly  search  aright ; 
Too  soon  appreciative  sense  expires ; 

The  circumstance  is  tardier  than  the  right. 
We  have  no  answers,  but  in  darkness  grope. 

Life  may  be,  should  be,  but  a  single  hope  ; 
For  who  but  God  of  Heaven  can  furnish  scope  ? 

C.  A.  S. 


60  POEMS. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM. 

THERE'S  a  strange,  unwonted  feeling,   thoughts  of 

olden  time  revealing, 
O'er  my  spirit  softly  stealing,  like  a  magic-woven 

spell ; 
'Tis  a  feeling  half  of  gladness,  tho'  'tis  deeply  tinged 

with  sadness, — 
With  a  melancholy  sadness,  as  I  speak  the  word 

"  farewell," 
And  thy  voice  is  heard  to  echo  back  the  thrilling 

word  "  farewell !  " 

Thy  remembrance  I  shall  treasure  with  a  sentiment 

of  pleasure, 
With  an  unbeclouded  pleasure,  until  time  with  me 

shall  end ; 
For,  embalmed  in  recollection,  there  will  be  the 

sweet  reflection, 
That  in  undisguised  affection,  thou  hast  ever  been 

a  friend ; 
In  my  joy  and  in  my  sorrow,  thou  hast  ever  been 

a  friend. 

Fare  thee  well !  tho'  fate  may  sever,  friendship's  flame 
shall  last  forever, 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM.  61 

Burning  on  and  burning  ever,  while  its  incense 

rises  high ; 
Till  at  last,  when  life  is  ending,  angel  voices  sweetly 

blending, — 
All  harmoniously  blending, — thou  art  welcomed 

.    to  the  sky, 

And  thou  hast  thy  home  forever — aye,  forever — in 
the  sky ! 

S.  B.  S. 


62  POEMS. 

TO  A  LADY 

ON  RECEIVING  A  BOUQUET  OF  FLOWERS. 

LAST  eve,  as  I  strayed,  to  my  wondering  view 

A  fairy  appeared,  as  at  times  fairies  do : 

From  some  bright  world  afar,  to  this  dark  one  of 

ours, 

She  had  trippingly  come,  with  a  handful  of  flowers, 
As  fair  as  could  blossom  in  valley  or  grove, 
All  speaking  one  language — the  language  of  love; 
And  while  I  stood  rapt,  such  a  vision  to  see, 
She  blushingly  smiled,  and  she  gave  them  to  me. 

There  were  red  and  white  roses,  in  bud   and  in 

bloom, 

Which  vied  in  exhaling  their  choicest  perfume  ; 
And  a  sweet  little  pink  showed  its  face  here  and 

there, 

As  it  breathed  out  its  life  on  the  soft  evening  air. 
All  these  lent  their  fragrance,  and  others  beside, 
And  the  whole  in  a  bunch  with  blue  ribbon  were 

tied, 

And  I  thought,  as  I  gazed  on  their  beauties  com- 
bined, 
Such  beauty,  world  over,  I  hardly  could  find. 


TO  A  LADY.  63 

All  this  of  the  flowers ;  but  how  shall  I  portray 
The  bright  looks  of  her,  so  much  fairer  than  they— 
The  beautiful  giver  ;  beneath  whose  sweet  smile, 
No  wonder  the  flowers  bloomed  so  richly  the  while. 
Ah !  well  may  my  sullen,  but  sensible  muse, 
To  attempt  such  a  task  of  description  refuse  ; 
For  grace  so  transcendent,  the  muse  must  confess, 
No  tongue  can  portray,  ami  no  language  express. 

But  while  memory  lasts,  and  I  ponder  them  o'er, 
The  bygones  of  youth  and  the  blest  days  of  yore, 
Thine  image,  fair  maiden,  where'er  thou  shalt  be, 
Oft-times  in  sweet  visions  will  come  back  to  me. 
These  flowers  I  would  cherish,  must  droop  and  de- 
cay— 

Their  ephemeral  beauty  must  soon  pass  away  ; 
But   the   maid   who  bestowed    them — her  radiant 

face — 

In  my  happy  remembrance  shall  still  have  a  place. 

S.  B.  S. 


64  POEMS. 

A  COMBAT. 

ORIGINALLY  PUBLISHED  IN  THE  SAN  FKANCISCO  HERALD. 

ONE  of  the  most  determined  and  sanguinary  ca- 
nine conflicts  anywhere  recorded  in  history  occurred 
in  front  of  our  sanctum,  yesterday,  between  a  couple 
of  ordinary  looking  curs,  with  some  interesting  skir- 
mishing by  a  gang  of  infuriated  phists — (wonder  if 
that  is  the  correct  orthography?) — and  a  general 
movement  in  the  direction  of  the  stampede  by  the 
animals  of  a  half  dozen  butcher  carts.  For  fifteen 
minutes  the  street  was  in  an  agonizing  uproar,  and 
excited  men  deliberately  walked  over  each  other  in 
attempting  to  catch  glimpses  of  the  belligerent 
brutes,  as  the  tide  of  battle  carried  them  from  one 
side  of  the  thoroughfare  to  the  other,  against  the 
heels  of  kicking  horses  and  under  the  wheels  of 
moving  vehicles.  They —  -  we  can't  begin  to  por- 
tray the  scene  in  prose.  Let  us  invoke  the  Muses, 
and  measure  off  the  picture  in  pentameter  : 

One  was  a  cur  of  famed  combative  strain — 
The  English  bull,  with  terrier  intermixed — 
Skin  smooth  and  white,  broad-breasted,  ears  erect, 
Tail  brief,  eyes  red,  protruding  under-jaw, 


A  COMSAT.  £5 

And  all  those  points  which  men,  versed  in  the  art 

Of  canine  conflict,  view  with  favoring  eyes. 

A  butcher  owned  him,  and  he  strode  the  earth 

Like  one  that  deemed  the  better  part  his  own. 

The  other  was  a  shaggy,  homely  brute, 

With  coat  unkemped,  and  drooping  tail  and  ears, 

And  aspect  mild,  and  deprecating  mien. 

His  restless  eye,  and  gaunt,  ungainly  shape, 

Told  that  he  lived  neglected,  and  had  earned, 

By  toilsome  march  for  many  a  month  gone  by, 

A  bare  subsistence  of  unwholesome  food 

Through  desperate  forays  into  kitchen  yards, 

And  feats  of  reckless  plunder  everywhere. 

He  chanced,  in  passing  by  the  butcher's  stall, 

To  cast  upon  the  fat  and  savory  joints 

A  look  of  longing,  yet  with  no  intent 

Of  open  seizure,  or  of  felony. 

Tis  true,  his  hollow  stomach  tempted  sore 

The  little  virtue  left  by  pinching  want ; 

Still  he  resisted,  and  with  measured  trot 

W.ts  journeying  onward,  when  the  butcher's  cur 

Insolent  with  plenty,  and  with  angry  jaws 

Still  red  with  recent  revels,  upward  sprang, 

And  after  the  retreating  stranger  sent 

A  growl  of  scorn.     The  latter  stopped  and  turned — 

The  jeer  and  insult  grated  to  the  quick  ; 


66  POEMS. 

And  with  the  fire  of  noble  fathers  dead 
And  turned  to  sausage,  and  with  bristling  back, 
He  boldly  faced  the  scorner  of  the  poor. 
No  word  was  uttered ;  each  the  other  eyed, 
And  showed  his  teeth  with  sanguinary  growl, 
Hurling  defiance  and  undying  hate, 
And  courting  combat  in  its  direst  form. 
Around  they  walked,  stiff-legged  and  menacing, 
In  circle,  to  survey  the  Vantage  ground ; 
Then  with  a  howl  of  pent-up,  smothered  rage, 
They  sprang  together,  and  the  silent  street 
Eoared  with  the  tumult  of  the  struggling  dogs. 
The  fur  flew.     Then  a  score  or  less  of  curs 
Mingled  their  voices  with  the  general  din. 
Upreared  they  fought,  and  lying  down  they4/?£, 
And  through  the  street  they  rolled  in  noisy  strife, 
"While  plunging  horses  and  excited  men 
Gave  zest  and  glory  to  the  combatants. 
Approached  the  dogs  unto  the  northern  curb, 
When— 

But  the  character  of  an  epic  poem — in  which  cate- 
gory of  literature  we  humbly  class  the  above — will 
not  permit  us  to  give  the  result  of  the  encounter  in 
verse.  It  would  render  the  production  entirely  too 
didactic.  The  Iliad  leaves  the  fall  of  Troy  to  the 
historian,  after  burying  its  defender  ;  we  will,  there- 


A  COMBAT.  67 

fore,  mention  here  that,  after  a  prolonged  struggle 
against  the  '  northern  curb  '  alluded  to  in  the  poem, 
the  dog  of  the  butcher  beat  a  yelping  and  cowardly 
retreat,  leaving  his  plebeian  foe  master  of  the  field. 
The  return  of  the  victor  to  the  southern  portion  of 
the  city  will  probably  be  made  the  basis  of  an 

'Odyssey.'" 

'  C.A.  S. 


68  POEMS. 


BAKNUM'S  BABY  SHOW.— 1855. 

WHO  says  the  world  moves  not  apace,  in  this  our 

happy  age, 
When  "  Young  America  "  so  soon  comes  bouncing 

on  the  stage ; 
When   e'en   the   babies,    yet   untaught    to   lisp    a 

mother's  name, 
Forsake  their  cradles  to  compete  for  favor  and  for 

fame. 

When  Gotham  holds  her  lofty  seat,  queen  city  of 

the  nation, 
Proud  patroness  of  enterprise  throughout  the  whole 

creation ; 
Whose  voice  from  press  and  business  mart,  rolls  out 

its  potent  thunders, 
And  last,  not  least,  whose  Barnum  keeps  the  world 

agape  with  wonders ! 

Come  one,  come  all,  both  old  and  young,  and  mingle 

in  these  scenes. 
Come  spinsters  of  uncertain  age,  and  misses  in  your 

teens. 


EARNUM'S  BABY  SHO W.  69 

Ye  rusty,  crusty  bachelors !   shake  off  your  false 

alarms, 
And  boldly  face  our  new  recruits — our  infantry  in 

arms ! 

Lo !  from  the  four  extremities  of  famous  Yankee  land, 
Come  juvenile  competitors — a  happy,  hopeful  band  ; 
Babes  fat  and  fair ;  triplets  ;  ah  me  !  a  dozen  pairs 

of  twins ! 
Thus  some  poor  mortals  suffer  two-fold  penance  for 

their  sins ! 

Alas,  that  in  this  novel  strife  its  prizes  should  be  won, 
At  sacrifice  of  here  and  there  some  mother's  darling 

son  ; 
Some  bright  one  midst  the  family  group,  who  reigns 

without  a  peer, 
Lured  from  his  little  realm  to  find  a  hundred  rivals 

here! 

But  surely,  each  maternal  lip  in  triumph  will  declare 
Her's  was  the  loveliest  offering ;  the  fairest  of  the 

fair; 
The  sweet  delusion  nature  gave,  still  reigns  within 

her  breast, 
Each  partial  eye  its  jewel  sees,  the  brightest  and  the 

best! 


70  POEMS. 

Kind  matrons !  *  on  whose  nod  depend  the  fortunes 

of  the  hour, 
Whose  taste  shall  choose  from  out  the  wreath,  the 

rarest,  sweetest  flower ; 
Forget  not,  how  in  olden  time  that  naughty  apple 

came 
Among  those  rival  goddesses,  to  wake  the  envious 

flame. 

When  Paris— inconsiderate  youth,  Hecuba's  ill- 
starred  son, — 

Presumed  among  the  matchless  three,  to  name  the 
peerless  one ; 

And  so,  upon  his  foolish  head,  Minerva's  hate  came 
down, 

While  Juno  lowered  upon  his  race  with  her  revenge- 
ful frown. 

My  song  should  cease  ;  but  still  the  fimse  would 

linger  to  propose 
A  health  to  Barnum — wondrous  man  !  the  friend  of 

baby-shows ; 
In  all  the  fields  of  enterprise  a  champion  shrewd 

and  bold, 
Beneath  whose  magic  nand,  whate'er  it  touches  turns 

to  gold ! 

*  The  lady  judges.  . 


BA J2JV  UN'S  BAB  Y  SHO  W.  7^ 

Years  hence,   perchance,   some  hale  old  man — his 

grandchild  on  his  knee — 
Will  oft  recount  the  bygone  times,  when  young  and 

blithe  was  he ; 
When  bright  and  lustrous  was  the  eye,  now  weak 

with  age,  and  dim, 
And  boast  about  that  early  prize  that  Barnum  gave 

to  him ! 

Now  to  each  little  cherub  face  a  double  health  is 

here — 

May  time  add  yet  another  charm  with  each  succeed- 
ing year ; 

Till  life's  meridian  sun,  in  all  its  richness  shall  un- 
fold 

The  blossom,  fair  and  beauteous,  as  the  infant  bud 
foretold. 

S.  B«  S. 


72  POEMS. 


MEMOET  AND  HOPE. 

THE  night  was  clear,  the  air  was  keen, 
The  ground  was  covered  thick  with  snow, 

And  far  above,  the  glittering  sheen 

Of  Heaven's  bright  orbs  would  come  and  go. 

I  felt  old  Boreas'  stinging  bite, 

As  shrieking  through  the  sash  he  came, 

And  saucily  addressed  my  light, 
As  if  she  were  an  olden  flame. 

Half  drunk  with  fun,  the  jolly  god 
Bore  the  light  snow-flakes  from  their  bed, 

And  rushing  up  the  narrow  road, 

Whirled  fiercely  round  the  traveler's  head, 

Who,  just  returned  from  Congress  Hall, 

Was  quite  unable  well  to  shift, — 
While  striving  Buncombe's  speech  to  call, 

He  could  not,  somehow,  see  the  drift. 

Ha  !  how  the  laughing  stars,  so  mild, 
Watch  the  mad  frolic  from  on  high ; 

They  seem  to  say  :  A  favorite  child 
Is  privileged  to  tease  and  cry. 


MEMORY  AND  HOPK  73 

I  dropt  the  curtain  on  the  scene, 

And  back  within  my  chamber  turned  ; 

When  burst  the  doors  that  stood  between 
My  callous  heart  and  brain  that  burned 

"With  recollections  of  the  past — 

Aroused,  enkindled  from  their  sleep ; 

The  sweetest  breeze,  the  harshest  blast, 
The  day  to  sing,  the  night  to  weep. 

Allotted  by  the  mighty  King — 

All  pass  before  my  shrinking  eye ; 
Nor  first  the  sorrows  bear  a  sting, 

While  every  joy  upheaves  a  sigh. 

As  hooded  monk  and  mail-clad  knight, 

Upon  their  patron's  natal  eve, 
With  gorgeous  pomp  and  solemn  rite 

Th'  illuminated  castle  leave ; 

Commanding  all  the  numerous  train 

That  forms  the  lordly  retinue, 
They  file  upon  the  darkened  plain, 

From  whence  in  silence  they  may  view 

The  vestal,  silver  lamps  that  shine 
Depended  from  the  casements  high ; 


4  POEMS. 

Nor  is  there  movement  in  the  line, 
Until  they  flicker,  leap  and  die ; 

So,  from  the  portal  of  my  mind 
Leads  covered  hope  and  steeled  despair, 

Innumerable  host,  that  wind 

Beneath  the  gateway-torches'  glare. 

The  arsenal  of  thoughts  and  deeds 

At  last  forsaken — all  apart, 
Each  nature  on  the  other  feeds — 

Heart  looks  on  mind,  mind  searches  heart. 

"  Ha  !  good  Kodolpho,  didst  thou  mark  ? 

Some  cursed  menial  yet  remains  ; 
I  see  her  'mid  the  light — nay  hark ! 

Hear'st  thou  her  desecrating  strains  ? 

"  Haste !  good  Bodolpho  ;  give  thy  steed 
The  freest  rein,  and  to  me  bring 

The  audacious  wretch  ;  with  greatest  speed 
Her  carcase  to  the  dogs  we'll  fling." 

"  Stay,  my  good  knight,"  old  Lubin  cries, 
"  I'm  sure  my  lord  his  word  withdraws ; 

Ton  form  and  voice  is  from  the  skies, 
Our  Lady  smiles  upon  the  cause." 


MEMOR T  AXD  HOPE.  75 

Why  did  I  fail  the  form  and  voice 
Of  childhood's  innocence  and  peace 

To  recognize  ?  But  now  rejoice  ! 
Hope  argues  from  them,  doubtings  cease. 

Blest  Heaven,  we  see,  that  ere  the  soul 
Is  quite  divorced  from  Faith  and  Truth, 

Before  remembrances  are  whole, 
An  angel  trims  the  lamp  of  youth. 

With  cruel  throbbing  pulsed  my  head, 
My  brain  with  thousand  vagaries  teemed, 

As,  worn  and  weary,  on  my  bed, 

I  threw  my  panting  self  and  dreamed. 

Amid  my  native  hills  I  roam, 
I  hear  the  brooks,  I  taste  the  breeze ; 

Disposed  at  once  to  joy  and  gloom, 
I  mark  each  scene  of  childhood's  glees. 

Mysterious  presence  by  my  side ! 

And  stranger  still  in  that  I  know 
It  is  my  love,  and  joy,  and  pride, 

That  close  attends  where'er  I  go. 

Full  recognition  with  the  morn, 

My  longing,  anxious  spirit  had  ; 
'Twas  then  I  knew  that  face  and  form — 

I  know  it  now,  and I  am  sad ! — C.  A.  S. 


76  POEMS. 


LINES  BEAD  AT  A  SUPPEB 

OF  COMPANY  C,  FIRST   BATTALION  INFANTRY,  MASS.  VOL. 
MILITIA,  GREAT  BARRINGTON,  1855. 

ONCE  on  a  time  Lieutenant  C.,  upon  my  reveries  stole, 

His  right  hand  held  his  last  cigar;  his  left,  my 
button-hole ; 

"  "We're  going  to  have  a  supper,  Sam,  next  Satur- 
day/' said  he, 

"  Here  goes  your  name  ;  don't  say  me  *  nay  ' — you 
must  be  there  to  tea  1 

"The  clergy  are  invited  guests;  the  yeomen  near 

and  far, 
The  lawyers,  and  a  host  beside  who  practice  at  the 

bar ; 
The  Captain,  and  his  soldiers  all,  with  tinsel,  fife 

and  drum  j 
I  tell  you,"   said  Lieutenant   C.,  "  this   military's 

some ! 

And  furthermore,  this  brief  advice  you'll  find  is 
haply  timed ; 

Come   not,  equipped  and   armed  alone,  but  duly 
cocked  and  primed ; 


LIXES  READ  AT  A  SUPPER.  77 

For  when  the  cloth  is  cleared,  we  trust  you  fellows 

of  the  law 
Will  undertake  to  satisfy  our  intellectual  maw. 

Give  us  a  speech,  or  sentiment,  or  both,  if  you 

prefer ; 
Or,  should  your  Muse  prove  tractable,  just  coax  a 

smile  from  her ; 
Come  on  at  least  with  ready  will,  and  only  do  your 

best, 
And  I — your  most  admiring  friend — will  answer  for 

the  rest." 

Thus  spake  the  First  Lieutenant,  and  in  quest  of 

other  prey, 

Left  me,  his  latest  victim,  to  ponder  on  my  way ; 
To  cogitate  some  shirking  scheme,  or  supplicate  the 

muse, 
Who  rarely  suffers  a  default  when  an  attorney  sues. 

'Tis  hard,  methought ;  'tis  passing  hard,  such  pres- 
sing friends  to  meet, 

While  walking  very  quietly  along  the  village  street ; 

To  have  them  chalk  you  for  a  speech,  and  pledge 
you  to  fulfill ; 

But  harder  yet  to  shake  them  off,  unless  you  say 
you  wilL 


78  POEMS. 

So  hither  to  our  feast  I  bring,  for  better  or  for 

worse, 
An  honest  toast,  though  plainly  clad  in  unambitious 

verse ; 
Forget  the  garb  that  clothes  the  thought,  uncomely 

though  it  be, 
But  to  the  naked  sentiment,  drink  heartily  with 

me! 

The  Boys  of  Berkshire !  skilled  alike  in  arts  of  peace 

and  war ; 
Proud  owners  of  this  fair  estate  their  fathers  battled 

for; 
With  hands  to  do,  and  nerve  to  dare,  in  Freedom's 

sacred  cause, — 
Defenders  of  their  country's  rights ;  upholders  of 

her  laws ; 

A  health  to  these,  the  worthy  sons  of  brave,  immor- 
tal sires ! 

Forever  may  their  bosoms  glow  with  patriotic 
fires! 

No  hireling  troops  are  our  defence ;  but  Freedom 
proudly  rears 

Her  flag,  and  hopefully  regards  our  Berkshire  Volun- 
teers ! 


LINES  READ  AT  A  SUPPER. 

A  health,  a  double  health  to  these ;  should  Freedom 

e'er  invoke 

Her  sons  to  rally  and  resist  the  rash  invaders'  stroke  ; 
Not  last,  not  least ;  but  first  and  best,  where  thickest 

fight  appears, 
Look  ye  to  find  our  noble  boys ;    our  Berkshire 

Volunteers ! 

S.  B.  S. 


30  POEMS. 


FEMALE  EQUESTKIANSHIP. 

PREFACE   TO  REPORT  OF  COMMITTEE  AT  EXHIBITION  OF 
HOUSATONIC  AGRICULTURAL  SOCIETY,   1855. 

IN  this  our  age  so  fraught  wiili  startling  things, 
When   each   nine   days    some  new-fledged  wonder 

brings ; 

When  good  old  grand-dames  rub  their  pious  eyes, 
And  heave  by  turns  their  Partingtonian  sighs  ; 
When  each  young  stripling,  ere  he  learns  to  read, 
Aspires  to  manage  his  two-forty  steed  ; 
Forsakes  his  primer,  and,  as  best  he  can, 
Displays  the  pony  and  the  fast  young  man  ; 
When  beardless  boys  with  martial  headgear  crowned, 
Scare  all  the  horses  in  the  country  round  ; 
Defy  the  foeman  with  prodigious  might, 
Though  well  assured  there's  none  at  hand  to  fight ; 
When  innovations  such  as  these  begin, 
Ought  not  our  ladies  to  be  "  counted  in  ?  " 
Aye  !  burst  the  barriers  that  have  kept  her  fast, 
And  give  to  woman  all  her  "  rights  "  at  last ! 
May  she  not  speak,  though  blest  with  healthful  lungs, 
And  doubly  favored  with  the  gift  of  tongues  ? 
While  man  his  seeming  precedence  attains, 
May  she  not  sometimes  drive,  and  hold  the  reins  ? 


FEMALE  EQUESTRIANSHIP.  SI 

On  this  our  annual  Farmer's  holiday, 
Hath  she  no  charms  and  graces  to  display  ? 
While  man  pursues  his  schemes  for  fame  or  pelf, 
May  she  not  seek  some  market  for  herself  ? 
In  sooth  she  may  ;  nor  let  one  cynic  dare 
To  chide  this  feature  of  our  Berkshire  Fair ! 
Come  then,  and  in  these  festive  sports  engage  ! 
Come  spinsters  all  of  problematic  age, 
Come  on,  fair  matrons,  and  ye  laughing  girls, 
With  raven  tresses  or  with  auburn  curls  ; 
Come  one,  come  all  to  ply  those  nameless  arts, 
Which  make  such  havoc  with  our  tender  hearts. 
Who  knows  how  many  an  unrecorded  prize 
Lurks  now  within  some  bashful  lover's  eyes ; 
How  many  a  swain  beholds  but  to  adore 
Some  favorite  lass  he  almost  loved  before  ! 
Ah  !  who  can  tell,  from  such  a  scene  as  this, 
What  hopes  may  follow,  or  what  nuptial  bliss  ; 
.What    life-long    pleasures,    'neath    the    smiles    of 

fate, 
Upon  the  issue  of  these  moments  wait ! 

Health  to  the  daughters  of  our  worthy  dames  ! 
The  brightest  jewels  which  old  Berkshire  claims. 
Despising  not  the  duties  of  their  sphere, 
Behold  the  trophies  of  their  labor  here  ! 


82  POEMS, 

See  the  rich  products  of  the  dairy-room  ; 
The  tasteful  fabrics  of  the  housewife's  loom  ; 
The  laces,  silks,  and  works  of  finer  art  ;— 
Say,  hath  not  woman  well  sustained  her  part  ? 
And  last,  not  least ;  hath  she  not  shown  her  skill 
To  guide  the  steed,  and  curb  him  at  her  will  ? 
O  may  our  boys  prove  no  ungrateful  churls, 
Who  own  such  soil  and  court  such  lovely  girls ! 
Be  it  their  pride  to  cherish  and  defend 
These  best  of  treasures  Heaven  to  man  could  lend ! 

S.  B.  S. 


LINES  FOR  ST.  JOHN'S  DAY.  83 


LINES  FOE  ST.  JOHN'S  DAY. 

ANOTHER  festal  day's  return  : 
Thrice  uttered  be  the  greeting, 

As  round  those  lights  that  brightest  burn, 
The  Brotherhood  are  meeting. 

No  anniversary  of  Time 

Our  Order's  records  centre — 
When  first  she  ope'd  her  gates  sublime 

And  bade  the  pilgrim  enter. 

Who  have  not  passed  by  Mount  Moriah, 

Nor  learned  the  sealed  Ionic, 
May  deem  the  widow's  son  of  Tyre 

Possessed  no  word  Masonic. 

But  let  rejected  skeptics  cry, 

Her  ancient  dates  are  fiction  ; 
Few  will  presume  to  her  deny 

John's  Saintly  benediction. 

And,  lo  !  the  bond  in  Art  confessed, 
When  skilled  with  square  and  gavel, 

Through  Europe's  courts,  from  East  to  West 
The  Masters  freely  travel. 


84  POEMS. 

When  round  Cologne  encamped  the  Craft — 

Those  wonderful  adapters, — 
Who  crowned  the  simple  Doric  shaft 

With  Corinth's  beauteous  chapters  ; 

When  he,  whose  architecture  wove 
In  stone  the  hymn  and  psalter, 

Upreared  the  Pantheon  far  above 
St.  Peter's  gorgeous  altar  ; 

When  rectitude  of  heavenly  law, 
Once  symboled  by  the  plummet, 

Was  typified  to  heights  of  awe 
In  Strasbourg's  piercing  summit  ; 

Or  when  Milan's  cathedral  choirs 
First  sang  the  strains  of  Starble — 

As  burst  into  a  spray  of  spires 
That  soaring  wave  of  marble. 

Albeit  the  operative  tools 

Of  true  Masonic  labor, 
Now  yield  the  Order's  nobler  rules, 

Toward  God,  and  self,  and  neighbor. 

We  bring  not  from  the  distant  Past 

A  legendary  story — 
The  grandest  living  structures  cast 

Her  monumental  glory. 


LINES  FOR  ST.  JOHN'S  DAY.  85 

Thanks  to  the  Architect  Supreme  ! 

Who  by  the  TEMPLE'S  building, 
By  every  joined  block  and  beam, 

By  splendid  wealth  of  gilding, 

By  column  and  by  vestibule, 

And  by  the  place  vail-hidden, 
Presented  "Wisdom's  perfect  school, 

To  which  our  lives  are  bidden. 

No  more  the  Pantheistic  thought, 

Life  is  a  plant's  expansion  : 
MAN  BUILDS  A  HOUSE  ;  his  deeds  are  wrought 

In  texture  of  a  mansion. 

The  pavement  of  .a  ground-floor  shows 

A  handiwork  indented ; 
The  walls  which  faithfulness  enclose, 

By  justice  are  cemented. 

O,  bond  of  Truth  !     O,  mystic  tie  ! 

That  binds  our  heart-strings  human, 
In  brotherhood  that  passeth  by 

The  vaunted  love  of  woman ! 

Where,  in  the  wide  world's  mighty  scope, 

Are  found  the  homes  not  wanting 
Thy  blessed  power  for  Faitli  and  Hope, 

'Gainst  hollow  cheer  and  canting  ! 


86  POEMS. 

The  Ark  whose  capitals  we  greet — 
Which  holds  the  workmen's  wages — 

Has  safely  reached  the  Master's  seat ; 
Borne  down  the  Lodge  of  Ages. 

So  shall  it  move,  majestic,  grand, 
Through  Time's  prescribed  cycle, 

'Till  on  the  sea  and  on  the  land 
Shall  stand  the  angel  Michael ! 

C.  A.  S. 


CHRISTMAS  LINES.  87 

CHRISTMAS  LINES, 

SENT    WITH    A    PACKAGE    TO    THREE    BOARDING-SCHOOL 
MISSES,  CHRISTMAS  DAY,   1853. 

I  SAW  them  at  the  window, 

So  like  the  Graces  Three  ; 

The  loveliest  and  fairest 

The  eye  could  wish  to  see  ; 

And  from  those  merry  voices, 

Melodious  and  clear ; 

The  welcome,  "  Merry  Christmas  1 " 

Came  floating  to  my  ear. 

There  stood  the  charming  Annie, 
I  always  loved  so  well ; 
And  Lou,  for  whom  my  fondness 
I  hardly  dare  to  tell ; 
And  lastly,  tho'  not  leastly 
Of  aU  the  Merry  Three, 
There  stood  the  merry  Julia — 
Oh  what  a  witch  is  she  ! 

And  so  I  just  bethought  me, — 
All  bashfulness  aside  ; — 
To  send  this  bunch  of  sweetness, 
(My  love  solidified  /) 


83  POEMS. 

And  now,  adieu,  sweet  maidens ! 
And  always  think  of  me, 
When  you  recall  the  Christmas 
Of  Eighteen  Fifty  Three ! 

&  B.  S. 


A  POEM. 


A  POEM, 

DELIVERED  AT  BOYS  AND  GIRLS*  FESTIVAL,  JULY  4,  1856, 
AT   GREAT  BARRINGTON. 

As  WEARY  traveler,  panting  for  repose, 

Halts  on  liis  journey,  where  some  streamlet  flows ; 

Seeks  out  some  grassy  couch  beneath  the  trees, 

And  shuts  his  eyes,  and  calmly  takes  his  ease  ; 

So  comes  our  Goddess,  with  a  gladsome  mien, 

Lured  by  the  aspect  of  this  joyous  scene. 

Sated  with  glory  and  the  deafening  noise 

Of  crackers,  guns,  and  patriotic  boys  ; 

Crazed    with    the    medley — both    of    sounds    and 

sights,— 

The  crowds,  the  din,  the  independent  fights  ;— - 
The  very  music  all  at  once  she  scorns, 
Intoxicated  with  so  many  horns  ; — 
Weary  of  these,  wo  bid  her  welcome  here, 
This  nice  old  lady,  in  her  eightieth  year. 
Hearty,  and  halo,  and  fair  she  is,  as  when 
Her  earliest  presence  cheered  the  soul-tried  men. 
Her  waist  grows  ampler,  and  her  arms,  'tis  true, 
Have  kept  on  stretching  all  her  lifetime  through. 
For  many  a  year,  perplexed  with  want  and  toil, 
With  meddling  neighbors  and  some  family  broil, 


90  POEMS. 

In  fair  proportions  her  estate  has  grown, 
By  thrift  and  tact  she  more  than  holds  her  own. 
Her  buxom  form,  for  aught  that  now  appears, 
Bids  fair  to  last  another  four-score  years — 
For  well  she  knows,  whatever  may  befall, 
Her  CONSTITUTION  can  survive  it  all. 

Fain  would  the  muse,  with  voice  attuned  to  praise, 
Repeat  the  story  of  her  earlier  days ; 
Recount  the  strange  adventures  of  her  youth — 
A  tale  of  romance,  but  of  treasured  truth — 
How  she  and  Jonathan  conspired  to  wed, 
And  when  it  was,  and  what  the  neighbors  said  ; 
How,  ever  since  the  nuptial  knot  was  tied, 
Flocks,  acres,  children,  all  have  multiplied. 
How,  from  the  thirteen  patrimonial  farms, 
Hard    earned    at    first,    and    kept    by  force    and 

arms, 

The  bounds  have  widened  toward  the  setting  sun, 
Till  Jonathan  is  lord  of  thirty-one ! 
How,  vexed  and  jealous  at  the  rare  success, 
Britannia  sought  her  daughter  to  distress ; 
How  Johnny  Taurus  came  from  o'er  the  sea, 
To  put  in  force  the  tax  upon  his  tea  ; 
Fought  eight  long  years,  a  strong  and  vigorous  pull, 
And  earned  right  well  his  name  of  Johnny  Bull. 


A  POEM.  91 

How,  once  again,  he  strove  the  boys  to  lick, 

And  tough  "Old    Hickory"  caused   him  to    "cut 

stick" 

In  later  times,  how,  on  a  foreign  field, 
Old  "  Rough  and  Ready  "  quite  forgot  to  yield  ; 
How,  from  the  first,  through  each  successive  year, 
On  land,  on  sea,  in  every  noble  sphere, 
In  science,  arts,  and  legislative  skill, 
With  sword  and  plow-share,  and  the  gray  goose- 
quill, 

With  wind  and  water,  earth,  and  fire,  and  steam, 
And  lightning  harnessed  like  a  docile  team  ; 
In  every  branch  of  commerce  and  of  trade, 
Where  man's  proud  impress  ever  yet  was  made ; 
Columbia's  Sons,  with  ready  zeal  addressed, 
Have  proved  themselves  the  foremost  and  the  best ; 
All  this  at  length,  the  Muse  would  fain  rehearse, 
In  faithful  numbers  and  befitting  verse ; 
But,  closely  scanning  the  assembled  throng, 
Forbears  discreetly  to  protract  her  song. 


Columbia's  goddess  once  again  beholds  her  natal 

day, 
Her  gallant  sons  and  daughters  fair  are  joined  in 

glad  array — 


92  POEMS. 

From  hill  and  dale,  from  north  and  south,  from  east 

to  western  shore, 
Sound  praises  and  thanksgivings  for  the  patriot  men 

of  yore. 

Fair  Liberty  beholds  the  scene  with  just  maternal 

pride, 
She  gazes  at  her  rich  domain,  extending  far  and 

wide, — 
Her  noble  lakes,  her  busy  streams,  her  prairies  and 

savannahs, 
While  from  them  all,  in  unison,  ascend  the  glad  ho- 

sannas. 

"Alas!"  she  cries,  "  that  in  my  name,  one  recreant 
traitor  should, 

With  impious  hand,  essay  to  part  this  glorious  sister- 
hood! 

That  midway  o'er  so  fair  expanse,  should  stretch 
that  odious  line — 

My  sons !  guard  well  the  heritage,  'tis  yours — all 
yours — and  mine  !  " 
****** 

All  sated  with  glory  and  swelling  with  pride, 
From  the  "  noise  and  confusion  "  now  turning  aside, 
The  goddess  of  Liberty  hitherward  strays, 
On  the  fresh  face  of  youth  and  of  beauty  to  gaze. 


A  POEM.  93 

"  All !  these  are  my  jewels  1"  with  rapture  she  cries, 
As  she  pauses  to  wonder,  while  feasting  her  eyes — 
"  No  regal  display  with  its  semblance  of  bliss, 
Can  present  such  a  heart-cheering  picture  as  this  !" 

With  a  radiant  smile  are  her  features  o'erspread  ; 
Every  trace  of  disquiet  has  vanished  and  fled ; 
Not  a  shadow  there  lingers  of  doubt  or  of  care, 
For  she  looks  at  her  jewels,  and  cannot  despair. 

Hero  she  spies  a  bright  youth,  who  in  progress  of 

years, 

At  the  far  west  shall  live  with  the  brave  pioneers  ; 
And  that  ruby-lipped  lass,  as  a  Southerner's  bride, 
O'er  a  cotton  plantation  shall  one  day  preside. 

All  this  picturesque  group  shall  be  scattered  afar, 
As  old  time  rushes  on  with  his  clattering  car  ; 
But  no  absence  or  distance  can  wither  or  chill 
That  remembrance  of  youth,  that  shall  cling  to  us 
still. 

And  our  goddess  well  knows,  that  as  each  rolling 

year 

Shall  bring  round  in  its  circuit  this  birthday  so  dear  ; 
Every  eye  shall  be  bright,  and  by  every  tongue, 
From  old  ocean  to  ocean  her  praise  shall  bo  sung. 


94  POEMS. 

No  new  State  in  its  birth  shall  embarrass  her  cause, 
For  no  traitorous  subject  shall  question  her  laws ; 
But  the  new  State  each  Sovereign  honestly  craves, 
Is  where   Hymen  presides,  and  the  lords  are  the 
slaves. 

Lo  !  her  chariot  waits,  and  the  goddess  is  in  it ; 
She  has  got  an  appointment  in  Texas  next  minute — • 
She  is  donning  her  robe — 'tis  of  red  white  and  blue — 
Now  she  waves  us  her  hand — and  she  bids  us  adieu ! 

S.  B.  S. 


OLD  SCENES. 


95 


OLD  SCENES. 

MY  boyhood  home  is  fresh  to  view  ; 

The  gladdening  spring  has  dressed 
The  landscape  with  her  foliage  new, 

And  all  the  earth  seems  blest. 

The  fine  old  street  once  more  is  paved 
With  shadows  from  the  elms, 

Whose  branches  have  for  centuries  waved 
In  clear,  ethereal  realms  ; 

And  interclasped  their  wrinkled  hands, 

With  bridal  verdure  clothed, 
As  though  in  earth  they  heard  their  bans ; 

By  Driad  Priests  betrothed. 

The  hills  and  mountains  are  replete 

With  glory  as  they  stand : 
The  one,  soft  sloping  to  our  feet, 

The  other  sharp  and  grand. 


And  close  below  the  rugged  steep, 

The  Housatonic  flows ; 
Lake  moat  before  a  fortress  keep, 

Defiant  to  its  foes. 


96  POEMS. 

And  dotting  all  the  valley  plain, 

Are  mansions  of  the  proud, 
Who  leave  the  city's  strife  for  gain 

In  summer's  sultry  cloud, 

In  quiet  haunts  like  these  to  find 

From  care  a  sweet  release, 
And  gather  for  a  burdened  mind 

The  recompense  of  Peace. 

This  day  above  an  hundred,  seems 

Enriched  by  Nature's  rule  ; 
The  sun  is  temperate  in  his  beams  ; 

The  winds  are  low  and  cool. 

Now,  while  the  morning  hours  remain, 

I'll  seek  some  favorite  place, 
Where  I  can  wake  an  olden  strain, 

Some  childhood  lines  retrace. 

And  first  my  thoughts  are  westward  turned, 

Beyond  the  pine-clad  hill. 
Alas  !  I'm  told  the  grove  is  burned ; 

In  ruin  lies  the  mill. 

The  woods  destroyed,  the  marble  bed 
Untouched  by  workmen,  save 

When  at  a  summons  from  the  dead, 
To  decorate  a  grave. 


OLD  SCENES.  97. 


So  that  to  click  of  bar  or  spade 
Within  our  burying  grounds, 

The  muffled  drill  alone  is  made 
To  give  responsive  sounds. 

That  ravished  and  deserted  spot 

I  cannot  wish  to  see ; 
For  what  it  was,  and  now  is  not, 

Would  mournful  speak  to  me. 

Across  the  river,  'neath  a  spring, 
Near  to  the  mountain's  crest, 

A  rock  of  reddish  hue  juts  forth, 
As  from  a  mother's  breast. 

Nor  treble  labor  of  ascent, 
Nor  lack  of  picture  grace 

From  yonder  rock,  do  now  prevent 
My  visit  to  its  base. 

But  I  remember,  vivid,  when 
I  last  stood  there  at  dawn 

With  one  I  shall  not  see  again — 
For  George  has  long  since  gone. 

Two  names  upon  the  southern  side, 
Were  rudely  carved  by  him ; 

But,  I  am  told,  before  he  died, 
The  marks  had  grown  quite  dim. 


98  POLMS. 

O,  friend,  beloved  !  No  sculptured  stone 

Affords  my  heart  relief  ; 
I  see  in  that  rough  rock  alone 

My  monument  of  grief. 

Forgive  me,  then,  if  I  refuse 
To  walk  where  oft  with  thee, 

Those  paths — in  pleasure  others  choose — 
They're  sacred  now  to  me. 

Then  what  direction  shall  I  take, 

Where  I  in  ease  may  look  ? 
Will  memories  jarring  discord  make 

Along  the  Roaring  Brook  ? 

Would  any  thing  of  recent  change 

Unpleasant  feelings  bring, 
Should  I  decide  to  visit  now 

The  "Evanescent  Spring?" 


The  morning  hours  are  fully  passed  ; 

The  sun  rolls  down  his  zenith  wave  ; 
As  with  a  fancy,  pleased  at  last, 

I  turn  my  steps  toward  Belcher's  Cave. 

A  hard  and  patient  search  revealed 
The  cavern's  mouth  to  me  again ; 

For  nature  cunningly  concealed 
The  entrance  to  the  forger's  den. 


OLD  SCENES.  99 

Well  I  remember,  venturous  Dave 

Would  lead  us  creeping  through  the  porch ; 

Then  suddenly  illume  the  nave 

With  flashes  from  his  birchen  torch. 

And  when  we  boys  would,  proud,  declare 
Dave's  cool  contempt  for  snakes  and  ghouls ; 

Droll  Tom  would  say  :  "  He's  oft  been  there, 
In  search  of  Belcher's  forging  tools." 

Ah,  me  !  when  on  far  distant  shore, 

I  stood  beside  each  lowly  grave  ; 
I  did  not  think  I  should  once  more 

Repeat  their  names  in  Belcher's  Cave. 

Here  history  and  tradition  both 
Rehearse  of  charities  and  crimes  ; 

The  one,  recorded  under  oath, 

The  other,  tales  of  grandame's  times. 

A  lad  who  sought  his  father's  ewe, 
One  day,  descried  a  curious  smoke  ; 
The  bank  soon  up  the  chimney  flew, 
And  this  illegal  broker  broke. 

What  days  were  "  celebrated  "  here  ! 

Here  there  were  scenes  of  wildest  mirth  ; 
The  grandest  frolics  of  the  year 

Were  held  around  this  spacious  hearth. 


100  POEMS. 

I  want  the  pictures  of  the  early  morn  ; 

Not  the  cold  thinking  of  the  mind  mature  ; 
With  harsh  demands  of  duty  these  are  born  ;— 

The  former  only  in  our  hearts  endure. 

Awake,  ye  echoes  of  the  joyous  past  1 
I  summon  now  a  happy  youthful  throng. 

Come  all,  as  when  we  here  assembled  last, 
With  jest,  and  trick,  and  anecdote,  and  song. 

Fond  recollections  crowd  a  swift-winged  hour, 
By  turns  provoking  me  to  laugh  and  weep  j 

'Till  they,  and  my  emotions,  lose  their  power, 
And  gladly  (wearied)  I  recline  and  sleep. 

And  as  I  slept,  Lo  !  I  was  in  a  trance ; 

A  fairy  troop  surround  my  flinty  bed  ; 
With  pantomimic  gesturing  they  dance  ; 

Then,  close  approaching,  the  Titania  said*: — 


Again  the  fairy  waved  her  golden  wand — 
A  lovely  form  descended  from  the  clouds ! 

Madonna-like,  her  look  was  sweet  and  fond ; 
A  nameless  grace  her  noble  brow  enshrouds. 


*  What  Titania  said,  is  of  too  personal  a  nature  to  be  here 
inserted. 


OLD  SCENES. 

She  sat  before  me  on  a  silver  throne 

Her  chastened  beauty  warmed  upon  my  heart ; 

Methought  another,  higher  sphere  was  known, — 
Of  which  earth-scenes  some  blessed  hints  impart. 

Again  the  sceptre  waves  !     The  spell  is  broke  ; 

The  dear  illusion  can  no  longer  please  : 
For  O  !  how  full  of  agony  I  woke, 

And  found  that  I  was  weeping  on  my  knees  ! 

An  impulse,  irresistible  and  strange, 
Prompts  me  to  climb  the  craggy  ledge  above  ; 

From  whence  I  view  the  glorious  set  of  sun, 
And  learn  the  meaning  of  the  dream  of  love. 

Through  the  thick  covering  of  the  village  trees, 
A  pleasant  cottage  meets  my  roaming  eye ; 

Instant,  as  though  borne  to  me  on  the  breeze, 
Sweet  thrills  of  recognition  force  a  sigh ! 

C.  A.  S. 


102  POEMS. 


VALENTINE. 

THE  Lady  Helen  is  strangely  fair, 
Endowed  with  charms  and  graces  rare  ; 
"With  lustrous  eyes,  whose  glance  is  rapture, 
And  beautiful  masses  of  golden  hair. 

A  rich  bloom,  like  the  summer  rose, 
Upon  her  soft  cheek  courts  repose, 
And  o'er  her  features,  when  she  smileth, 
A  gleam  as  of  sunlight  comes  and  goes. 

Her  brow  is  placid  and  serene  ; 

Her  form  the  proudest  e'er  was  seen  ; 

And,  like  the  classic  Grecian  Helen, 

She  seems  by  nature  pronounced  a  queen. 

Her  very  presence  hath  a  spell, 

"Within  whose  light  I've  loved  to  dwell ;  — 

To  sit,  and  gaze,  and  only  listen, 

To  catch  her  syllables  as  they  fell. 

Her  heart,  they  say,  hath  boundless  worth, 
Her  beauty  scarce  can  symbol  forth ; 
In  her,  a  spirit  meet  for  Heaven, 
Its  gentle  influence  sheds  on  earth. 


VALENTINE.  1Q3 

Unmarked  amid  the  passing  throng, 
These  eyes  have  gazed  enraptured  long  ; 
This  heart  hath  throbbed  with  wild  emotion, 
That  fain  would  break  and  outpour  in  song ! 

I  could  a  tale  of  love  unfold ; 
But  the  truth  were  just  as  well  untold ; — 
'Tis  precious  little  for  me  she  careth, — 
A  rusty  bachelor  forty  years  old ! ! 

But  with  thy  leave,  Saint  Valentine, 
This  wreath  of  poesy  I'll  twine  ; 
But  whence  it  comes,  and  who's  the  author, 
The  Lady  Helen  could  never  divine. 

S.  B.  S. 


104  POEMS. 


TO  ADA 


THOU  hast  the  wealth  of  beauty  ;  them  art  fair, — 
As  oft  thy  faithful  mirror  must  have  told  thee  ; — 

Endowed  with  charms  and  comely  grace  so  rare, 
That  all  must  pay  thee  homage  who  behold  thee. 

Thou  hast  the  wealth  of  mind  ;  to  quest  of  lore, 
Classic  and  modern,  thou  hast  given  thy  youth ; 

And — glorious  thing  in  woman — hast  in  store 
Treasures  of  thought,  of  wisdom,  and  of  truth. 

Thou  hast  the  wealth  of  soul ;  that  nobler  part, 
In  all  its  depth  and  plenitude  is  thine, 

Which  gives  the  richest  graces  to  the  heart, 
And  makes  us  kindred  of  a  race  divine. 

Thus,  thrice-endowed  with  wealth,  I  may  not  doubt 
That  whosoe'er  thyself  and  thine  shall  win ; 

Will  find  a  temple,  beautiful  without, 
And  ornamented  gorgeously  within. 

S.  B.  S. 


[  VERSITY 

^^Of  CALIFOR^ 
TOUCHES  AND  HINTS.  "US" 

TOUCHES  AND  HINTS. 

POEM  DELIVERED  AT  ZETA  PSI  BANQUET,  CALIFORNIA. 

IT  seems  as  if  the  gracious  Will 

That  hollowed  out  the  bay, 
And  smote  the  outer,  rock-ribbed  hill, 

To  ope  a  golden  way 

For  sea  and  ship,  for  home  and  hope  ; 

Was  equal  in  behest 
That  man  should  plant  on  yonder  slope 

The  College  of  the  West. 

The  long,  low  beach  of  sedge  and  vines  ; 

The  slow-retreating  plain ; 
The  emerald  upland,  which  reclines 

Against  the  mountain  chain, — 

Whose  steep  ascent  and  swelling  girth 

Lend  dignifying  powers 
To  that  choice  spot  of  all  the  earth 

For  academic  towers ! 

O,  beauteous  scene  for  brain  and  heart, 

Our  students'  life  beguiles  ; 
The  sleeping  vale,  the  teeming  mart, 

The  ocean  and  the  isles ! 


106  POEMS. 

"With  ever-varied  shifting  phase 

Of  motion  and  repose ; 
With  morn's  impenetrable  haze, 

With  evening's  gorgeous  close  ! 

With  shimmering  noon,  and  glittering  night, 

Of  such  translucent  beam, 
As  on  the  meditative  sight 

Eevives  the  Berkeleyan  dream  ! 

Where  wintry  snows  are  never  known, 

Nor  enervating  heat ; 
Within  the  isothermal  zone, 

A  sure  and  perfect  seat. 

Where  nature  for  the  site  supplies 

The  Oracles  of  Fate, 
A  bounteous  wisdom  justifies 

The  Nation  and  the  State. 

And,  thanks  to  many  a  noble  friend, 

Of  unsectarian  aim, 
Whose  large  endowments  here  descend 

With  honor  to  his  name. 

And,  thanks  for  toil  in  leading  chairs, 

By  men  of  cultured  skill, 
Who,  'mid  a  thousand  teasing  cares, 

Have  kept  an  even  will. 


TOUCHES  AND  HINTS.  107 

Auspicious  history  !     From  this  page 

We  lift  a  trustful  gaze  ; 
Though  weightiest  issues  mark  the  Age, 

And  anarchies  amaze. 

Strong  Fort  of  Faith  !     Assaults  are  vain ; 

Thy  banners  never  furled  ! 
While  Time  may  last,  thou  shalt  retain 

The  Outlook  of  a  world  ! 

Fair  priestess  !  who  shall  yet  indite 

Ten  thousand  glorious  names  ; 
With  reverent  sentiments  to-night, 

We  dare  invoke  thy  flames  ! 

"  Room  for  Reformers  !  with  their  sovereign  plan 
To  heal  or  mitigate  the  woes  of  man." 
The  cry  is  ancient  as  our  Nation's  time, 
Yet  born  anew  in  every  tapster's  rhyme. 
The  field  has  widened  at  each  fresh  demand, 
Till  desk  and  forum  ope  on  every  hand. 

GIVE  HEED,  O  PEOPLE  !  is  the  prophet  shout, 
Of  those  whose  theory  is  the  "  Latest  out." 
Nor  less  potential  is  the  summons  borne 
To  found  a  sect,  or  lift  a  race  forlorn  ; 
Or  force  a  city  corner  upon  corn. 


108  POEMS. 

Alike  their  dignity, — the  crowd  to  back  ; — 

The  long-eared  medium,  and  the  short-haired  quack. 

The  simple  truths  our  patriot  Fathers  saw, 
Sketched  in  resolve  and  molded  into  Law  ; 
By  which  in  perils  unsurpassed  they  stood — 
Built  with  their  bones,  cemented  with  their  blood  : 
Are  all  too  narrow  for  the  modern  seer, 
"Whose  wondrous  License  strikes  the  popular  ear ! 
Whose  published  writ  is,  Keadiness  for  "  fame," 
Won  through  a  bloodless  martyrdom  of  shame. 

Pretending  now  a  scientific  lore, 

And  now  a  message  from  the  '  other  shore  ;' 

In  either  case  prepared  to  tell,  in  terms, 

The  grandest  compound  and  the  primal  germs  ; 

Rehearsing  nonsense  in  exultant  tone, 

As  if  the  lectures  made  creation  groan  ; 

In  any  case,  prepared  to  scoff  and  sneer 

At  every  custom  decency  holds  dear  ; — 

Seducing  ignorance  with  lascivious  charms, 

And  healthy  conscience  stinging  with  alarms. 

Such  are  Outriders,  on  the  secular  coasts, 

For  less  unselfish,  less  courageous  hosts  ; 

Who  now  disclaim,  and  afterwards  suggest 

The  "  Progress  "  programme  may  be  for  the  best  ? 


TOUCHES  AND  HINTS.  109 

With  cunning  glance,  to  note  in  every  move 
The  points  debauched  communities  approve  ; 
Lest  they  should  fail  to  pander,  just  in  time, 
To  some  new  doctrine,  vicious  but  "  sublime  1" 

See  worthy  subjects  for  the  prison  lock, 
Unblushing  labor  with  the  corporate  stock, 
To  cover  up  the  robbery  of  a  ring, 
Or  fast  enthrone  some  great  monopoly  king ; 
Until  the  people,  rising  in  a  storm, 
Announce  their  temper  for  a  real  reform. 
When  Lo  !  the  foremost,  with  the  loudest  cheer, 
These  rear-guard  veterans  suddenly  appear ! 
Their  functions  now  a  double  game  of  cheat : 
Shape  voted  verdicts  to  a  flat  defeat ; 
The  while  they  make  their  own  promotion  sure, 
And  preach  a  flattering  gospel  to  the  poor ; 
Then  in  some  office,  lucrative  and  warm, 
They  whisper  sadly  of  a  lost  Reform  ! 

Behold  the  highest  council  in  the  land  I 
What    men    dishonored !     and  what    rogues   com- 
mand ! 

The  jovial  scoundrel  (or  the  lucky  fool), 
Rich  from  his  ventures  in  a  gambler's  pool, 
For  bigger  tricks,  or  personal  regard, 
Concludes  to  take  the  senatorial  card. 


POEMS. 


Instant  proclaims,  in  condescending  tone, 
His  champion  platform,  as  the  "  Laborers'  own  !  " 
Secures  his  organs  by  a  brand  new  "  dress," 
A  monthly  stipend,  and  a  mammoth  press. 
Pensions  electors  and  the  hovering  scribes 
Who  write  his  speeches  and  discount  his  bribes. 
Assumes  the  toga  with  an  easy  air, 
And  flings,  off-hand,  the  talks  his  friends  prepare. 
([Reminding  cronies  —  in  their  private  chat,  — 
"  Though    wit    had    prestige,   we've    reformed    all 
that.") 

Who  shall  these  workings  and  these  powers  abate  ? 
Inform  the  masses  and  preserve  the  State  ! 
Where  will  you  find  the  valorous  strength  and  will 
To  push  these  creatures  from  the  seats  they  fill  ? 
Who  shall  come  forward  and  combine  to  raise 
The  social  standard  of  our  earlier  days  ; 
When  thieves,  by  purchasing  official  place, 
Could  not  obtain  an  honest  household's  grace  ; 
When  those  whose  name  no  stamp  of  honor  bore, 
Would  not  presume  to  cross  the  good  man's  door  ? 

Behold  the  masters  of  the  daily  "  Press  "  ! 
Whose  broadening  power  is  almost  measureless. 
How  few  perceive,  confess,  and  trembling  bear 
The  moral  burdens  in  the  realm  they  share. 


TOUCHES  AND  HINTS.  HI 

How  many  to  such  high  position  bring 
The  view  and  purpose  of  a  sordid  thing. 
Perhaps  buy  out,  and  run  with  vengeful  cast, 
Some  well-born  journal  with  an  honored  past. 
Breed  typhoid-tumults  o'er  a  clerkship  wrong  ; 
Misquote  large  markets,  and  old  "  jobs  "  prolong. 
Inlay  their  columns  with  the  tales  that  smirch, 
And  pass  the  platter  in  the  wealthiest  church. 
Spurn  trifling  offers  from  the  babbling  trade, 
And  keep  their  virtue  on  a  dress  parade  ; 
Maintain  their  cipher  at  the  thousandth  score, — 
And  shed  contempt  on  every  dollar  store. 
Let  others  falter  with  a  timid  qualm, — 
Their  voice,  we  know,  is  always  for  Reform. 

A  tearful  pity  touches  the  distress 

Of  those  compelled  to  read  our  neutral  Press. 

Where  circumstantial  suppositions  surge, 

In  reckless  grammar,  to  the  very  verge 

Of  dire  conclusions  on  the  mooted  head, 

Of  what  was  once  surmised  to  have  been  said. 

Who  can  presume  to  adequately  greet 
The  fervid,  candid,  superficial  sheet  ? 
Where  every  flabby  "  Reformation  "  scheme, — 
Creed  of  fanatic,  and  the  sick  man's  dream, — 


POEMS. 


Is  treated  gently,  —  in  a  savant  style, 

Proudly  repressive  of  tlie  reader's  smile. 

Where,  every  day,  in  paragraph  and  lines, 

The  special  hobby  of  the  tripod  shines  ;— 

In  tireless  iteration  making  known 

A  Balance  Kegulator,  all  his  own  ! 

A  short,  infallible,  perspicuous  code, 

Which  sets  each  subject  his  appropriate  load. 

The  very  rich  shall  all  the  taxes  pay  ; 

The  very  poor  need  only  vote  and  play. 

The  prentice  builders  shall  their  wages  rate, 

And  draw  an  extra  tribute  from  the  State  ; 

While    those    who    mark    the    trestle-board    and 

chart, 
Must  take  their  income  in  a  love  of  Art. 

Who  shall  expose  the  communistic  scamps  ? 

Combat  agrarians,  and  the  lecturing  tramps? 

To  real  complaints  appropriately  reply  ; 

To  borrowed  doubts  return  the  reasons  why  ? 

With  pleasing  humor  dissipate  their  chaff, 

And  send  their  problems  to  the  idiot's  laugh  ? 

Incline  the  people  for  the  public  weal, 

To  crush  their  counsels  with  contemptuous  heel  ; 

The  mighty  gulfs  resistlessly  present, 

'Twixt  just  ambition  and  vile  discontent  ; 


TOUCHES  AND  HINTS. 

niuine  anew  the  pathway  and  the  scope 
Of  careful  judgment  and  a  healthy  Hope  ? 

For  such  a  service — welcomed  in  the  van — 
Expect  the  College-educated  man  ! 
To  some,  a  special  and  a  noble  call : 
A  sphere  of  duty,  more  or  less,  to  all. 

What  though  uncounted  thousands  never  own 
The  debt  in  such  essential  service  grown  ? 
What  though  a  legion  cannot  understand 
That  any  dangers  shadow  o'er  the  land  ? 
And,  least  of  all,  suspect  explosive  force 
From  such  a  shallow,  freedom-prating  source  ? 
Though  every  warning  is  decried  and  hissed, 
The  threats  portentious  and  the  debt  exist. 

And  O,  the  grateful  tribute,  on  this  score, 
Due  the  alumni  who  have  gone  before ! 

Enough  of  surface  thinking  in  the  land. 
Sufficient  privilege  at  each  youth's  command. 
More  than  enough  of  Proverb  lore  extant, — 
Oft  wreathed  in  context  of  revolting  cant. 
As  well  predict  a  harvest-field  of  grain 
On  arid  hill-side  or  Sahara  plain, 
From  equinoctials  and  the  lunar  heat ; 
As  with  the  tribes  of  ignorant  conceit 


114  POEMS. 

Hely  alone  for  fructifying  powers 

On  wealth's  rewards  and  moral  saw-dust  showers. 

The  need  momentous  is  the  souls  combined 

With  quick,  electric,  cultivated  mind  ; 

At  whose  decree  economies  shall  rest 

Beneath  profound,  inexorable  test. 

With  no  detraction  of  the  highest  force 

We  speak  emphatic  for  the  College  course. 

Since  history's  pages,  at  each  calm  review, 

Approve  the  framers,  "  wiser  than  they  knew." 

The  fostered  relish  for  established  fact, — 

The  root  of  structure  and  the  sum  exact. 

The  mental  habits  which  the  schools  have  shown, 

Wed  to  the  nerves  and  bred  into  the  bone. 

The  days  appointed  and  the  tasks  assigned 

To  try  the  vigor  of  the  pupil's  mind, 

Before  a  bench  of  criticizing  friends, 

Whose  cheering  counsel  with  their  censure  blends. 

The  builded  will  to  check  the  Fancy's  haste, 

And  make  it  wait  on  judgment  and  on  taste. 

The  fine  attrition  in  the  class  retreat, 

'Mid  growths  of  friendship, — never  more  so  sweet ! 

The  duress  for  self-introspection  keen  ; 

The  hard,  remorseless  wearing  of  the  green. 

The  glorious  sovereignty  which  this  drill  implies 

To  summon,  portion,  point,  and  focalize ; 


TOUCHES  AND  HINTS. 

Till  given  topics  at  the  chosen  hours 

Feel  the  white  burning  of  harmonious  powers ; 

With  not  a  faculty  allowed  to  roam 

Till  law  and  contrast  drive  the  statement  home. 

Vast  opportunities  denote, 
The  deepening  want  for  men, 

Whose  discipline  shall  antidote 
The  shams  of  speech  and  pen. 

Whose  quenchless  passion  for  the  truth 

Shall  find  a  scholar's  art, 
As  from  the  fresh,  brave  soul  of  youth 

The  fit  suggestions  start. 

Here  grandest  fruits  of  sound  review 

In  physics  and  in  thought, 
With  all  the  lights  of  Science  new, 

Instructingly  are  brought. 

Here  for  Life  Tournaments  wo  bid, 
With  Learning  and  with  Love  ; 

Where  Logic's  iron  hand  is  hid 
Within  the  knightly  glove. 

Priestess  of  Wisdom!     In  whose  torch 

The  lights  of  satire  play  : 
Grant  its  imparted  fires  may  scorch 

The  falsehoods  of  the  day. 


116  POEMS 

Priestess  of  Wisdom !     Genial  glow 
The  censers  by  thy  side  ! 

Inspire  the  God-sons  thou  shalt  know 
With  warmth  of  manly  pride  ; 

And  guard  the  children  of  thy  heart, 
Linked  in  a  mystic  grace, 

As  from  thy  altars  they  depart, 
To  take  their  waiting  place. 

No  vaunt  of  spirit  or  of  mein, 

No  over-zeal  for  strife ; 
But  ready  for  each  earnest  scene 

That  consecrates  a  life. 


LINES. 


LINES, 

BEAD  AT  ST.  JOHN'S  CELEBRATION,  F.  AND  A.  M.,  GREAT 
BARRINGTON,  1858. 

IN  ancient  times,  when  Israel's  king  that  famous 
fabric  reared, 

In  which  his  glory  and  his  wealth  so  manifest  ap- 
peared ; 

He,  in  his  wisdom,  first  gave  heed  to  Heaven's  great 
law  to  man, 

And  ORDER,  beauteous  and  sublime,  through  all  the 
process  ran. 

No  sound  of  axe  or  metal  tool,  through  all  the  time 

was  heard ; 
No  craftsman  broke  the  harmony  by  one  contentious 

word; 
For  so  the  work  was  portioned  out  by  Solomon  the 

wise, 
From  corner-stone  to  capital,  no  discord  could  arise. 

Eleven  hundred  men,  thrice  told,  as  Master  Masons 
wrought, 

And  eighty  thousand  Fellow-Crafts  the  quarried  mar- 
bio  sought ; 


118  POEMS. 

While  Entered  as  Apprentices  were  seventy  thou- 
sand more, 

Who,  through  the  progress  of  the  work,  the  heavy 
burdens  bore. 

t 

A  vast  Fraternity  they  were — a  labor  vast  to  share, 

Who  always  on  the  Level  met,  and  parted  on  the 
Square  ; 

And  three  Grand  Masters  gave  the  rules  by  which 
the  work  was  done ; — 

The  King  of  Israel,  King  of  Tyre,  and  He — the  wid- 
ow's son. 

The  columns  and  pilasters  were  of  Parian  marble 
wrought ; 

The  timbers  from  the  famous  groves  of  Lebanon 
were  brought ; 

Of  cedar,  fir,  and  olive  wood,  the  stately  walls  were 
made  ; 

And  all  within,  and  all  without,  with  gold  was  over- 
laid. 

Thus,  two  great  structures  had  a  birth  ;  the  one,  of 

wood  and  stone, 
The  other,  framed  and  fashioned  of  Fraternal  Love 

alone : 


LIXES. 

The  one  was  joined  in  all  its  parts  by  cunning  work 

of  art  ; 
The  other,  by  the  ligaments  that  fasten  heart  to 

heart. 

The  one  stood  out  in  bold  relief  against  the  vaulted 
sky; 

The  other  raised  no  towering  front  to  greet  the  vul- 
gar eye ; 

Tho  one  was  all  resplendent  with  its  ornaments  of 
gold  ; 

Tho  other's  beauty  lay  concealed  beneath  its  mystic 
fold. 

Age  after  age  hath  rolled  away  with  time's  unceas- 
ing tide, 

And  generations  have  been  born,  have  flourished 
and  have  died, 

Since  wrought  our  ancient  brethren  on  that  Temple's 
missive  walls, 

And  thronged  its  lofty  colonnades  and  walked  its 
spacious  halls. 

The  Temple,  with  its  wondrous  strength,  hath  yield- 

unto  Time. 

The  Brotherhood  that  flourished  there,  still  lives 
and  lasts  sublime. 


120  POEMS. 

The  one,  a  mere  material  thing,  hath  long  since 

passed  away  ; 
The  other  holds  its  vigorous  life,   untouched  by 

Time's  decay. 

Long  may  it  live,  through  coming  years  its  excel- 
lence to  prove, 

And  Masons  ever  find  delight  in  offices  of  love ; 

Till  summoned  hence,  the  glory  of  that  Upper  Lodge 
to  see, 

When  the  GRAND  MASTER  shall  confer  on  each,  his 
last  degree. 

S.  B.  S. 


VERSES. 


VERSES, 

READ  AT    ST.    JOHN'S    CELEBRATION,    PITTSFIELD,  JUNE, 
1860. 

THE  muse  who  is  courted  scarce  once  in  a  year, 
Is  apt  to  grow  shy,  when  you  wish  she'd  draw  near. 
Like  most  other  divinities,  she  too  prefers 
To  grant  wishes  of  those  who  pay  some  heed  to  hers. 

So  I  found  yester  eve,  as  I  made  invocation 
For  aid  in  a  forthcoming  tight  situation  ; 
For  all  my  advances  she  met  with  a  slight, 
And  said,  "  Poets,  like  Masons,   had  better  keep 
bright." 

To  compromise  matters  I  promised  a  sonnet, 

Or  some  sensation  theme,  like  the  new  style  of  bon- 

net, — 

The  one  lately  over  from  Paris,  you  know, 
With  the  vast,  overhanging,  immense  portico  ! 

Then  the  smiles  and  the  frowns  o'er  her  countenance 

passed  ; 
But  'twas  plain  to  be  seen  which  would  triumph  at 

last  ; 

So  she  hastily  twined  this  rude  garland  of  song, 
And  bestowed  it  on  me  —  and  I  brought  it  along. 


122  POEM8. 

As  over  life's  thoroughfares  jostling  we  go, 

Toward  the  same  fated  goal  where  the  dark  waters 

flow, 

It  is  well  by  the  wayside  to  pause  now  and  then, 
To  recall  that  we're  brothers  and  feel  that  we're 

men. 


All  along  on  our  march,  if  we  will  but  behold  — 
Life's  sunny  oases  their  beauties  unfold  ; 
We  may  linger  to  rest  and  refresh,  if  we  will, 
Like  the  Craftsman  of  old,  at  the  brow  of  the 


We  honor  the  Order,  whose  festival  day 
Brings  the  brotherhood  hither  in  gladsome  array, 
To  join  in  this  ancient,  fraternal  communion, 
This  cordial,  old-fashioned  Masonic  re-union. 

We  honor  the  Order,  whose  principles  dear 
Make  each  man  with  his  fellow  a  recognized  peer  ; 
And  whose  language   of   emblem   and  signal   are 

one, 
'Neath  a  boreal  sky  and  a  tropical  sun. 

Whose  ritual,  solemn,  antique  and  sublime  ;  — 
Outliving  its  history  —  lasting  as  time  — 
Still  charms  and  controls  with  its  mystical  sway, 
As  in  Solomon's  reign  and  Zerubbabel's  day. 


VERSES.  123 

We  honor  its  tenets,  which  gladly  bestow 

Equal  favors  on  all — on  the  lofty  and  low ; 

High  as  heaven,  broad  as  earth,  deep  as  nethermost 

sea, — 
Even  such  should  a  true  Mason's  charity  be  ! 

We  ope  not  our  portals  at  wealth's  proud  behest, 
Nor  to  fame  with  her  plume  and  heraldical  crest ; 
But  to  him,  high  or  humble,  who  honestly  brings 
The  warm,  throbbing  heart  from  which  Masonry 
springs ! 

That  heart,  whether  hid  'neath  the  vesture  of  toil, — 
'Neath  the  garb  of  the  peasant  who  tilleth  the  soil, 
Or  the  fabric  in  which  one  worm  dresseth  another, 
We  hail  it  the  same  as  the  badge  of  a  brother. 

'Neath  the  mariner's  jacket,  afar  on  the  deep, 
You  shall  test  it,  and  find  it  is  never  asleep  ; 
'Neath  the  rude  savage  breast,  when  no  mortal  is 

nigh, 
It  is  visible  still  to  the  All-seeing  Eye. 

Its  presence  is  heeded  in  every  zone  ; 
By  priest  on  the  altar,  by  prince  on  his  throne  ; 
Wheresoever  the  tribes  and  the  races  belong, 
Lo  !  Masonry's  vast  multitudinous  throng  ! 


124  POEMS. 

And  Masonry's  mission :  'tis  simply  to  prove 
'Mid  the  jiiscords  of  life,  how  potential  is  Love : 
To  revere  what  is  sacred,  to  feel  what  is  human, 
To  show  good  will  to  man  and  true  honor  to  woman, 

Be  it  ours  in  our  day  to  preserve  it  alive. 
In  Faith,  Hope  and  Charity,  long  may  it  thrive ; 
Till  mankind,  in  the  light  of  its  dc»eds  shall  agree 
That  the  whole  world  one  Grand  Lodge  of  Masons 
should  be ! 

S.  B.  S. 


LINES,  125 


LINES, 

READ  AT  ST.  JOHN'S  CELEBRATION,   OF  EVENING  STAR 
LODGE,  LEE,  MASS.,  JUNE,   1859. 

(WKITTKN  DT7BING  THE  EXEBCISES. ) 

THERE'S  one  thing  stands  exceeding  clear, — 

And  much  as  I  expected, — 
It  comes  from  West,  and  South,  and  East ; 

"  My  boy,  you're  just  elected ! 
So  make  a  speech,  or  sing  a  song ! 

(They  say  that  Cincinnatus 
Presents  a  chap,  who's  troubled,  too,* 

With—very  slight— afflatus  /") 

This  morn,  as  Sol  rose  in  the  East, 

To  <!all  his  craft  to  labor ; 
"  Come,  come  !  "  said  he, — "  it's  time  for  you 

To  stir  yourself,  my  neighbor ! 
You  know  you're  of  the  *  Lesser  Lights^ 

My  adolescent  brother !  " 
Said  I — "  Don't  call  me  that  again ; 

If  I'm  one,  you're  another ! 

•  Another  poem  was  read  on  the  same  occasion  by  F.  O.  Sayles, 
Esq.,  of  Berkshire  Lodge,  South  Adams. 


126  POEMS. 

Don't  think  because  you  closed  your  Lodge 

So  gloriously  last  even  ; 
And  left  us  striving  to  peer  through 

That  golden  gate  to  Heaven ; 
And  cheered  sweet  Orient  with  a  smile, 

And,  like  a  gallant  lover, 
Dispelled  the  gloom,  and  placed  instead 
That  Royal  Arch  above  her  ; 

Don't  think,"  said  I, — "  to  rise  at  morn, 

Behind  that  mask  up  yonder  ; 
And  chase  our  pleasant  dreams  away 

By  muttering  so  like  thunder  ! 
And  don't — I  beg  you — don't  repeat 

Those  tricks  in — hydrostatics ; 
Which  make  poor  Luna  hide  her  face, 

And  give  me  such  rheumatics ! 

"We  meant  to  have  a  holiday ; 

A  feast  of  love  and  reason — 
And  celebrate,  with  right  good  will, 

This  rare  old  festive  season ; 
But  how  am  I  to  keep  the  step, 

Or  swing  a  dext'rous  gavel, 
"With  all  these  .twinges  at  the  joints, 

To  plague  me  while  I  travel ! " 


LINES.  127 

"  Come,  come !  "  the  Day-king  gave  response, 

"  Don't  fret  in  such  a  manner; 
The  time  is  up,  and  brothers  now 

Are  rallying  'neath  your  banner. 
Old  Cincinnatus  left  his  plow 

To  serve  his  fellows,  gladly ; 
You  know  the  rest — so  don't  desert 

Your  colors  quite  so  badly  !  " 

So  here  I  come — all  out  of  breath — 

But  if  you  would  "  see  Sam ; " 
Or  ask  if  he's  among  this  throng, 

I  beg  to  state— "lam!" 
I'm  always  there,  in  soul  or  flesh, 

In  spite  of  adverse  weather, 
Where,  in  the  bonds  that  bind  true  hearts. 

True  men  are  met  together. 

And  very  pleasant  'tis  to  gaze 

On  scenes  like  these,  my  friends ; 
Where  brothers  meet  in  glad  embrace, 

And  wit  with  wisdom  blends ; 
Where  beauty  smiles  to  crown  the  feast, 

And  music  breathes  her  strain  ; — 
Where  youth  exults  with  high  impulse, 

And  age — is  youth  again ! 


128  POEMS. 

O,  what  are  all  the  baubles  worth 

We  strive  to  win  and  save, 
While  scrambling,  as  we  blindly  do, 

From  cradle  on,  to  grave  ! 
We  go  shell-gathering  all  our  days, 

As  babes,  as  boys,  as  men  ; 
While  still  the  solemn  question  comes, 

"  What  then !  "—ah,  yes  !  what  then ! 

The  time  is  up  ; — chop  off  the  string ! 

Now,  join,  each  grateful  brother ! 
And  mark,  kind  friends,  who're  not  of  us, 

Hoiv  Masons  toast  each  other! 
OUR  GENEROUS  HOSTS  !  all  hail  to  you — 

Ye  men  of  high  endeavor ; 
And  thou — bright  EVENING  STAR — shine  on, 

Forever — and  forever. 

S.  B.  S. 


TO  BELLE.  129 

TO  BELLE. 

SOMETHING  WAS  AND  IS  NOT. 

I  TAKE  the  old  familiar  walk 

To  the  brow  of  the  pleasant  hill, 
From  whence  we've  watched  the  evening  sun 

Its  parting  rays  distil. 
I  stand  upon  the  oaken  bridge, 

And  mark  the  waters  glide, 
The  same  as  I  have  seen  them,  dear, 
When  seated  at  your  side. 

And  O !  my  heart,  it  will  go  back, — 

I  cannot  keep  it  still, — 
I  cannot  change  its  tortuous  track 
By  virtue  of  my  will. 

And  I  wonder  sadly,  strangely, 
If  there  yet  a  heart  may  be, 
Whoso  memories  of  olden  time 
Are  somehow  linked  with  me ! 

There's  not  a  bush,  or  briar,  or  tree, 

I  see  no  wayside  flower, 
But  what  suggests  some  thought,  of  thee, 

As  of  a  long-flown  hour. 


130  POEMS. 

Kind  nature  tunes  her  various  voice 

To  suit  my  listening  ear ; — 

The  breezes  do  not  now  rejoice, 

No  laughing  stream  I  hear ; 

But  a  soft  and  plaintive  song  is  borne 
From  the  circling  mountain  slopes ; 
And  the  murmuring  river  seems  to  mourn 
The  dirges  of  my  hopes  : — 
As  I  wonder  sadly,  strangely, 
If  there  yet  a  heart  may  be, 
Whose  pleasant  memories  of  old 
Are  somehow  linked  with  me  ! 

No  hot  and  feverish  state  of  brain 

Induces  me  to  find 
In  yon  half-burned  and  ruined  mill 

A  picture  of  my  mind. 
Its  fallen  timbers,  charred  and  black, 

Its  flood-gates  swept  away,— 
Appropriate  types  they  well  may  seem 
Of  my  premature  decay. 

Through  the  swollen  dam,  unceasingly, 

The  swollen  torrents  roll ; 
So  pour  the  streams  of  inner  life 
O'er  the  embers  of  my  soul. 


TO  BELLK 

And  I  wonder  sadly,  strangely, 
If  there  yet  a  heart  might  be, 

Whose  memories  of  olden  time 
Are  somehow  linked  with  me  1 

If  e'er  thy  feet  retrace  the  paths 
In  the  meadows  and  the  glade, 
Where  oft,  in  love's  communion  sweet, 

Together  we  have  strayed  ; 
And  the  thought  of  an  olden  time  rise  up,-— 

Thy  soul's  unbidden  guest, — 
Think  of  me  at  my  best,  dearest, 
Think  of  me  at  my  best. 

For  I  ne'er  shall  view  the  evening  sun, 

From  the  brow  of  the  pleasant  hill, 
Or  stand  upon  the  oaken  bridge, 
Above  the  ruined  mill, 
But  I  shall  wonder,  O  how  sadly! 

If  one  noble  heart  there  be, 
Whoso  tender  dreams  of  bygone  scenes 
Are  somehow  linked  with  me  ! 

C.  A.  S. 


132  POEMS. 


ATLANTIC   CABLE   POEM. 

BEAD  AT  RECEPTION     OF    CYBUS  W.   FIELD,  AT     STOCK- 
BKIDGE,   MASS.,    AUGUST,  1858. 

HUZZA  !  the  magic  cable's  laid  ;  and  now,  across  the 

main, 
Britannia  hails  her  daughter  fair,  who  answers  back 

again  : 
With  lightning  flash,  through  watery  depths  that 

roll  and  surge  between, 
Columbia's  President  responds  to  Britain's  smiling 

Queen. 

• 

Bejoipe,  ye  sons  of  men,  rejoice !  the  wondrous  deed 

is  done ! 
The  hemispheres,  like  Siam's  Twins,  at  last   are 

joined  in  one ! 

One  little  iron  ligament  unites  each  mighty  part, 
Through  which  the  swift  pulsations  throb,  as  beats 

the  planet's  heart. 

Now,  hand  in  hand,  in  warm  embrace,  the  Old  "World 

and  the  New, 
As  bridegroom  and  as  bride,  rejoice  in  wedlock  firm 

and  true ; 


ATLANTIC  CABLE  POEM  133 

The  sea-wave   stoops  its  lofty  crest,  and  kissing 

either  shore, 
Consents,  the  sacred  tie  shall  last  till  Time  shall  be 

no  more. 

"  For  ages  past," — the  sea  exclaims, — "  I've  all  the 
while  been  fighting 

"With  might  and  main,  to  keep  this  pair  their  mar- 
riage vows  from  plighting ; 

I've  tossed  and  foamed,  and  roared  between,  and 
made  an  awful  pother, 

But  all  for  nought ; — e'en  now  the  rogues  are  whis- 
pering to  each  other ! 

Hail,  mighty  Science !  once  again  we  note  thy  con- 
quering tread, 

And  praise  thee  for  this  last  and  greatest  blessing 
thou  hast  shed ; 

For  who  may  count,  or  comprehend  the  vast,  un- 
measured good, 

That  hence  shall  flow  to  benefit  the  world's  great 
brotherhood ! 

And  thanks, — our  heartfelt  thanks  to  them, — the 

men  of  tireless  zeal, — 
Who  ventured  all,  and  battled   all,  t'  advance  the 

human  weal ; 


134  POEMS. 

Who  hoped,  and  dared,  and  bravely  wrought,  'gainst 

wind,  and  wave,  and  storm, 
The  grand  achievement  of  the  age,  in  triumph  to 

perform. 

The  Cyrus  of  the  olden  time,  for  deeds  of  valor 

done, 
A    deathless    name  emblazoned    on     the    page  of 

Xenophon ; 
And  school  boys  now,  in  solemn  quest  of  ancient 

Grecian  lore, 
Peruse  his  dying  speech ;  and  wish — he'd  died  an 

hour  before ! 

No  haughty,  steel-clad  foeman  hath   our  modern 

Cyrus  slain ; 
No  thousands  of  the  enemy  lie  stretched  upon  the 

plain ; 
A  nobler  victory  by  far,  our  Berkshire  boy  shall 

claim  ; 
A  loftier  niche  is  hewn  for  him  within  the  halls  of 

Tame! 

Old  Neptune  is  the  vanquished  foe ;  and  he  whose 

praise  we  sing, 
The  hero   of    a    bloodless   fight,   hath    conquered 

Ocean's  King ! 


A  TL ANTIC  CABLE  POEM,  135 

Let  old  Eolus  blow  his  gales,  and  Neptune  nurse 

his  ire  ; 
Our  thought 'shall  still  dart  through  the  deep,  in 

words  of  living  fire  ! 

Now,  to  the  mighty  Lord  of  Hosts,  all  praise  and 

glory  be, 
Who  giveth  man  to  hold  enchained,  the  everlasting 

sea ; 
To  tame  the  lightnings,  rule  the  winds,  the  continent 

to  span  ; 
Glory  to  God  on  high ;  and  on  earth,  peace ;  good 

will  to  man ! 

One  parting  cheer  ; — one  joyous  cheer  ; — let  all  the 

welkin  ring ! 
Let  all  with  one  accord  lift  up  the  voice  to  praise 

and  sing. 
Old  Berkshire  greets  the  nations  all,  the  islands  far 

awa* — 
Three  cheers  for  FIELD,  her  gallant  son !     Huzza ! 

Huzza!!  Huzza!!!* 

S.  B.  S. 

*  At  the  delivery  of  this  poem,  the  assembly  all  rose  and 
joined  in  the  cheer  at  the  conclusion,  with  splendid  effect. 


136  POEMS. 


TWO  WEEKS. 

Two  WEEKS  ago,  my  dearest  dear, — 

It  seems  as  'twere  full  many  a  year ! 

Before,  time  was  a  shallow  stream  ; — 

It  deepened  in  love's  radiant  beam. 

Before,  I  felt  earth's  cares  alone, 

Now,  sweetest  joys  and  hopes  are  known. 

All !  what  experience  can  it  be 

That  fires  this  finer  life  in  me  ? 

Something  from  out  my  heart  is  given — 

Something  has  filled  my  soul  with  Heaven. 

The  world's  best  praise,  its  slanderous  sneer, 

I  neither  covet  now,  nor  fear. 

O  !  what  has  wrought  this  mighty  change, — 

To  me  inexplicably  strange  ? 

Tell  me,  my  dear,  for  you  must  know, 

What's  passed  since  two  short  weeks  ago. 

C.  A.  S. 


LINES.  137 

LINES, 

RECITED    AT    DEDICATION    OF    ALUMNI    HALL,  WILLIAMS 
COLLEGE,   AUGUST,   1859. 

I  MUST  confess  to  something  like  that  same  old  per- 
turbation, 

Which,  very  oddly,  used  to  come  before  the  recitation ; 

When  called  to  give  some  lucid  guess  about  the  orbs 
celestial, 

With  notions  quickened  by  the  gaze  of  certain  orbs 
terrestrial. 

You  see,  that  sanguine  autocrat,*  (and  slightly  san- 
guinary), 

Who,  thinks,  no  doubt,  the  feast  is  best  when  most 
the  dishes  vary — 

Makes  game  of  me  ;  and  brings  me  here — a  sort  of 
scapegrace  son — 

Along  with  Colt's  artillery  t  to  fire  this  mi-nute  gun ! 


Hard  by  the  spot,  where,  years  ago,  Fort  Massachu- 
setts stood, 

To  keep  at  bay  the  savage  foe, — the  red  men  of  the 
wood, — 

*  Bev.  Dr.  Durfee,  who  invited  the  author  to  deliver  a  poem  on 
the  occasion. 

f  Allusion  to  Hon.  J.  D.  Colt's  speech,  same  occasion. 


138  POEMS. 

Another  fortress  stands  to-day,  its  beacon  light  to 

shed, 
And  better  read  men  supersede  the  red  men  long 

since  fled. 

Thanks  to  the  Colonel !  generous  soul,  who  shelled 

his  substance  here ; 
Beheld  his  comrades'  patient  toil,  and  gave  them 

words  of  cheer ; 
Who  caught,  in  hope  and  faith,  some  glimpse  of  this 

refulgent  light ; 
Whose  hope  is  now  fruition  ;  whose  courageous  faith, 

our  sight ! 

'Tis  strange  how  Fortune  oft-times  lures  her  very  dar- 
lings on, 

And  makes  them  sufferers  while  they  live,  but  he- 
roes when  they're  gone ! 

The  jealous  dame  but  dealeth  right,  and  history  ceas- 
eth  never 

To  show  how  self  decays  with  self,  but  good  deeds 
live  forever. 

That  generous  gift  bestowed  in  faith,  in  fortune's 
darker  hour ; — 

Th'  assuring  voice  which  faltered  not  amid  the  tem- 
pest's power ; — 


LINES. 


139 


I  tell  you,  these  shall  live  for  aye,  embalmed  in  grate- 
ful story, 

And  Ephraim  Williams  !  thy  name  blended, — semper 
sit  inflore  ! 

A  hundred  years  and  more  have  sped  since  he,  our 
founder,  died. 

He  fell  as  falls  the  robust  oak — in  fulness  of  his 
pride ; 

Ere  life's  expanding  bud  had  fairly  opened  into 
bloom, 

His  soul — swift-summoned — found  its  God;  his  .mor- 
tal part,  its  tomb. 

He  could  not  know,  he  could  not  see,  in  all  his  fond- 
est dreams, 

How  far  abroad  that  little  torch  should  send  its 
kindly  beams ; 

Nor  how,  through  all  the  centuries,  its  life-impart- 
ing rays 

Should  help  illumine  isles  afar,  and  set  the  earth 
ablaze ! 

Behold  the  lesson,  how  complete ;  the  moral,  how 

sublime ; 
Behold  what  simple  acts  outlive  the  wasting  force  of 

Time! 


140  POEMS. 

The  grandest  awe  invests  our  life  ;  and  conscience 

bids  us  heed 
What  wondrous  possibilities  attend  each  thought 

and  deed. 

Come  now,  my  brothers,  leap  with  me  the  gulf  of 
years  between, 

And  pause  a  moment  to  survey  the  beauty  of  the 
scene. 

Let  Memory,  smiling  through  her  tears,  her  garner- 
ed treasures  bring, 

And  o'er  us,  let  her  sister,  Hope,  her  radiant  halo 
fling. 

These  peerless  mountain-monarchs  stand,  defiant  as 
of  yore, — 

(The  rock-ribbed  fogies  still  insist  that  tunnels  are 
'  a  bore.) 

The  sky  o'erhead  appears  to  hold  its  primitive  con- 
dition, 

And  Green  and  Hoosic  flow  as  erst,  in  faithful  coali- 
tion. 

But  Green  and  Hoosic  float  no  more  the  Sachem's 
light  canoe  ; 

The  engine  shrieks  where  once  was  heard  the  In- 
dian's wild  halloo ; 


LINES. 


And  e'en  that  sage  old    cheese,   the  moon  —  tho' 

strange  may  seem  the  story- 
Comes,  tempted  by  the  midnight  glass,  to  our  ob- 

servatory. 

And  still,  here  stands  Fort  Williams;  —  aye  !  I  vastly 

like  the  name  ;  — 
Our  Alma  Mater  seems   a  sort  of  Anglo-Spartan 

dame  ; 
Behold  her  sit  with  jewelled  robes,  and  many  crowns 

upon  her, 
To  welcome  home  her  gallant  sons,  and  note  their 

scars  of  honor  ! 

And  hence,  upon  each  natal  day,  our  best  of  nursing 

mothers 
With   hearty  benediction  sends  a  class  of  learned 

brothers  ; 
And  bids  them  go  where  duty  calls,  wherever  that 

may  be, 
Throughout  our  country's  broad  domain,  or  far  be- 

yond the  sea. 

And  hither,  on  each  natal  day,  come  fresh  men  by 

the  scores, 
To  fill  the  void,  and,  in  their  turn,  to  tread  these 

classic  floors  ; 


142  POEMS. 

O,  happy  youths  who  thus  begin,  each  with  his  new- 
found peers, 

To  gather  the  experiences  of  these  bright  college 
years ! 

And  hither,  also,  we  have  come,  to  hold  our  brief 
re-union ; 

To  meet  once  more  beneath  these  shades  in  sweet 
but  sad  communion. 

Our  mother's  waist  has  ampler  grown ;  more  numer- 
ous rise  her  towers  ; 

Her  sunshine  bringeth  sure  return  in  ceaseless  gold- 
en showers. 

But,  Alma  Mater !  as  we  stand  around  the  family 

tree, 
Thou  dost  not  show  us,  after  all,  what  most  we  long 

to  see. 
Thy  very  words  of  welcome  do  but  send  our  thoughts 

astray, 
If,  haply,  we  might  catch  one  glimpse  of  that  sweet 

yesterday ! 

The  very  forms  that  now  respond  to  names  of  "  auld 

lang  syne," 
Bear  marks  of  life's  approaching  noon,  or  afternoon's 

decline ; 


LINES.  143 

And  others — dear,  departed  friends ! — old  men,  and 

youths  as  well — 
For  such  the  death-star  speaks  the  truth  we  need 

not  words  to  tell. 

But  this  we  know,  who  linger  yet,  our  feelings  are 

not  colder, — 
And  Alma  Mater  more  than  holds  her  own,  as  she 

grows  older. 
Upon  her  brow  we  find  no  trace  of  anxious  doubt  or 

care; 
Her  means  of  influence  multiply,  and  how  can  she 

despair  ? 

And  now  to  FORTRESS  WILLIAMS,  a  parting  toast  is 

here ; 
And  Alma  Mater ;  may  she  live  till  Time's  remotest 

year; 
And  long  as  earth  and  sea  endure,  may  her  renown 

increase ; 
"  Her  ways  be  ways  of  pleasantness,  and  all  her  paths 

be  peace !" 

S.  B.  S. 


POEMS. 


HELENA. 

I  CANNOT  praise  thine  eye,  thy  form  ; 

I  cannot  tell  the  faith  I  place  : 
"Within  thy  heart — so  kind  and  warm — 

I  could  not  number  every  grace. 

My  tongue  refuses  to  declare 
The  fascinations  which  I  feel ; 

Nay,  while  the  blissful  bond  we  share, 
Why  search  the  figures  on  the  seal  ? 

Our  full  communion,  strong  in  health, 

No  selfish  reckoning  abides  ; 
Open  and  free  we  hold  our  wealth, — 

Not  as  the  miser  counts  and  hides. 

Yet,  not  in   passion's  fevered  school 
Have  we  attained  our  mutual  thought ; 

The  worthiest  judgment  bore  the  rule, 
And  into  love  wise  sanction  wrought. 

Hours  that  are  past,  how  close  in  peace  ! 

May  years  to  come  our  hopes  sustain  ; 
'Till  time's  swift  river  finds  release 

Within  the  unencircled  main. 

C.  A.  S. 


VERSES. 


VEKSES, 

READ    AT    CELEBRATION,    4TH    JULY,    1861,    AT  GREAT 
BARRINGTON,  MASS. 

I  THOUGHT  it  would  be  so  !  'Twas  only  this  morning 
A  young  man  approached  me  and  uttered  his  warn- 

ing ; 

Said  he  ;  "  My  dear  fellow,  mind  what  you're  about  ; 
If  you  call  round  to  dine,  you'll  bo  surely  called 

out  !  " 

"  Called  out  !  "  I  exclaimed,  with  perceptible  choler— 
"  Pray,  what  do  you  mean?     Don't  I  hand  out  my 

dollar? 

May  n't  I  mingle,  forsooth,  in  these  festival  scenes, 
And    punish    my   share   of    the    sweet    peas    and 

greens  ? 

I  never  fight  duels  ;  —  I  ne'er  was  put  through 
The  diet  of  pistols  and  coffee  for  two  ;  — 
So  I  tell  you,  my  friend,  with  an  emphasis  stout, 
I'll  be  shot  if  I  stand  it  :—  I  won't  be  called  out  !  " 

"  Not  so  fast  !  "  said  the  youth  ;  —  "  there's  no  malice 

prepense,  — 
Take  my  words  in  a  mild  and  Pickwickian  sense  ; 


146  POEMS. 

Do  not  torture  jour  nerves  in  such  terrible  shape — 
I'm  trying  to  help  you  get  out  of  a  scrape. 

You  see,  years  ago, — it's  no  business  of  mine — 
But  you  flirted,  they  say,  with  the  musical  Nine  ; 
And  gossips  still  whisper,  that  if  the  truth's  known, 
You  cherished  a  passion  you  haven't  outgrown. 

And  to-day,  after  dinner,  when  stomachs  are  full, 
And  people  grow  heavy,  and  jokes  become  dull ; 
Just  as  likely  as  not,  some  sly  fellow  will  shout, — 
'  There's  a  bird  that  can  sing — let  us  whistle  him 
out ! ' " 

"My  stars  ! "  I  soliloquized  ;— "  what  shall  I  do  ? 
I  can't  make  a  speech  after  dinner,  that's  true  ; 
And  as  for  a  song — well,  it  might  have  been  worse  ; 
As  the  least  of  two  evils  I'll  stick  to  the  verse  !  " 

So,  a  national  toast,  very  hastily  drest 

In  a  homespun  apparel,  and  coarse  at  the  best, 

I  bid  you  be  drinking  :  fill  up  the  glass  then, 

And  with  lips  that  are  loyal  shout  forth  your  Amen. 

THE  STAR  SPANGLED  BANNER  !  though  traitors  would 

rend  it, 
With  firm  hearts  and  true  we  will  ever  defend  it ; 


VEKSES.  147 

Still  proudly  upheld,  it  shall  float  on  the  gale, 
Nor  one  orb  in  its  bright  constellation  shall  pale  ! 

While  burn  in  the  breasts  of  their  children  the  fires 
That  kindled  aforetime  the  zeal  of  our  sires  ; 
We  swear  that  forever,  on  land  and  on  sea, 
It  shall  still  wave  triumphant,  the  Flag  of  the  free  ! 

When  the  untempered  passions  that  govern  the  hour, 
Have   spent  their   wild  rage   and  exhausted  their 

power ; 

Far  aloft,  never  doubt,  up  in  heaven's  free  air, 
We  shall  gaze  and  thank  God  that  our  Flag  is  still 

there ! 

O  ever  undimmed  may  those  colors  unfold ; 
The  red,  white  and  blue,  and  the  spangles  of  gold ; — 
Still  proudly,  still  firm  to  the  breezes  unfurled, 
The  hope  of  the  nations  ;  the  joy  of  the  world ! 

S.  B.  S. 


148  POEMS. 


MEMOEIES. 

A   POEM  DELIVERED  BEFORE  THE    ALUMNI  OF  WILLIAMS 
COLLEGE,   AT  THE  COMMENCEMENT  OF   1861. 

CAPRICIOUS  Muse  !  about  whose  temples  throng 
Adepts  and  bunglers  in  the  art  of  song  ; 
Before  whose  shrine  in  loyal  homage  bent, 
Unnumbered  bards  their  votive  gifts  present ; 
Behold  ;  another  suppliant  stands  aloof, 
Impatient,  noting  each  severe  reproof 
To  hapfess  mortals,  as  they  venture  near, 
"  Begone,  impostors  !  pray — how  came  ye  here  ?  " 

But  list,  coy  mistress  of  that  wondrous  art, 
Which  holds  such  empire  o'er  the  human  heart ; 
Before  thy  smile  its  magic  spell  withdraws, 
I  plead  like  Brutus — "  hear  me  for  my  cause  !  " 

In  bygone  days,  ere  yet  with  reverent  awe 

I  dared  approach  the  sages  of  the  law  : 

Ere  yet  from  day-dreams  of  my  youth  I  woke, 

To  grapple  Blackstone,  and  contend  with  Coke  ; 

To  drudge  and  labor  for  litigious  men, 

"And  scrawl  strange  jargon  with  the  barbarous  pen ;" 

When  hours  were  golden,  and  when  life  was  new, 

And  all  its  scenery  wore  a  roseate  hue  ; 


MEMORIES.  14.9 

Oh,   then,   thou   know'st,   I  sought,  nor  quite   in 

vain, 

To  weave  pet  fancies  in  poetic  strain. 
Dame  "  Technia  "  might  relate,  did  she  but  choose, 
What  court  I  paid  thee,  now  reluctant  muse  ; 
So  might  her  sons,  who  bid  me  now  essay 
To  catch  some  glimpses  of  that  earlier  day ; 
And,  home  returning,  having  wandered  long, 
To  deck  these  altars  with  a  wreath  of  song.         , 
O,  then  !  in  memory  of  the  days  lang  syne,    ^ 
Once  more  attune  this  slighted  harp  of  mine ; 
Touch  with  thy  sceptre  its  neglected  strings, 
Shape  these  rude  numbers  as  thy  suppliant  sings ; 
Glad  with  thy  presence  and  auspicious  mien 
This  rare  occasion,  this  inspiring  scene. 

Fratres  Alumni !  from  each  busy  sphere 
Once  more  withdrawing,  find  we  welcome  here. 
Hero,  where  aforetime — aye-remembered  days — 
The  lists  wo  entered  for  scholastic  bays  ; 
Gathered  from  this  our  mother's  bounteous  store 
The  facts  of  science,  and  the  classic  lore 
Embalmed  forever  in  the  glorious  tongue 
Wherein  great  Homer  and  Anacreon  sung  ; 
Here,  'mid  these  lordly  hills,  these  quiet  groves, — 
Scenes  of  our  earlier  rivalries  and  loves — 


150  POEMS. 

Where  unschooled  notions  caught  their  chastened 

tone ; 

"Where,  haply  too,  some  last  wild  oats  were  sown ; 
Here,  whence  departing — boys  no  longer  then — 
We  hailed  our  first  proud  impulses  as  men  ; 
Here  haply  gathered,  well  I  know  what  theme 
Lends  inspiration  to  each  waking  dream. 
The  realm  of  Memories,  on  this  day  of  days, 
Outspreads  its  landscape  to  our  longing  gaze ; 
While  she,  its  queen,  of  ever  changeful  face, — 
Now  lit  with  smiles — now  dark  with  sorrow's  trace ; — 
She — Hope's  twin-sister — emulous  to  share 
Our  all  of  life — all  that  we  have  and  are — 
Extends  a  welcome  hand,  while  thus  we  own 
Our  just  allegiance  to  her  mighty  throne. 

Blessed  of  mortals  is  the  man  whose  heart 
Preserveth  ever  from  the  world  apart, 
Some  choice  retreat,  within  whose  sacred  walls 
The  olden  memories  hold  their  festivals. 
Where  fond  memorials  of  the  past  are  hung ; 
Where  thoughts  go  clasped  with  fancies  ever  young ; 
Echo  the  lays  of  home  and  childhood  hours, 
And  floats  the  incense  of  life's  vernal  flowers. 
Before  whose  guarded,  tabernacled  shrine, 
Maternal  prayers  attend  in  shapes  divine  ; 


MEMORIES. 

And  earlier  loves,  and  joys  of  long  ago 
Their  sweet  notes  warble  in  delicious  flow. 


Beneath  such  mortal's  form,  howe'er  uncouth, 
Be  sure,  upsprings  the  fount  of  endless  youth. 
Somewhat  that's  human,  ever  in  his  breast 
Asserts  its  presence  as  a  constant  guest  ; 
Something  is  throbbing,  'neath  whatever  disguise, 
That  may  be  touched  with  generous  sympathies. 
Some  such  kind  motor,  brothers,—  is  it  not  ? 
Hath  brought  ye  hither  to  this  cherished  spot,  — 
Of  old-time  scenes,  some  transient  glimpse  to  gain;  — 
Be  view  the  by-gones,  and  be  boys  again. 

MEMORIES  my  theme  :    Oh  !   list  kind  friends  the 

while  ; 

The  gentle  muse  bespeaks  your  gracious  smile. 
Pray  don't  forget,  though  this  is  classic  ground, 
And  these  are  scholars,  learned  and  profound  ; 
Yet  he  who  seeks  your  transient  thoughts  to  lure, 
Is  no  professor,  but  an  amateur. 
Attend,  ye  doctors  !  to  the  dogs  give  over 
Doses  of  physic,  while  the  men  recover  ; 
While  Pegasus  shall  limp  before  your  eyes, 
He'll  give  your  patience  healthful  exercise. 
Hear  ye,  attorneys  !  don't,  for  once,  demur  ; 
The  muse  retains  you  :  charge  the  fees  to  her  ! 


152  POEMS. 

No  doubt  she'll  serve  you  as  some  clients  do, 
And  prove  insolvent  when  the  cause  is  through  ! 
Ye  reverend  clergy  !  hearken,  I  beseech  ; 
Give  laymen  license  now  and  then  to  preach  ; 
Your  best  of  sermons,  with  the  listening  throng, 
Have  most  effect  when  sandwiched  well  with  song. 
Ye  pedagogues !  who  wear  your  nerves  all  out 
In  teaching  those  "  young  idiots  how  to  shout," 
Commit  a  while  the  text-books  to  their  shelves, 
And  frankly  own  you  once  were  boys  yourselves  ! 
And  thou,  sage  critic !  drop  that  dreadful  sneer  ; 
'Twill  be  your  turn  to  poetize  next  year  ; 
Beware  !  lest  I  avenge  my  jealous  muse, 
And  pluck  your  plumage — in  the  "  Crowville  News ! " 

Sweet  memories  of  childhood  hours !  how  gratefully 

they  steal 
Across  our  minds,  as  Time  revolves  his  never-halting 

wheel ; 
The  pleasant  thoughts  that  cluster  round  the  old 

paternal  home, — 
Be  these  our  priv'leged  visitants  thro'  all  the  years 

to  come ! 

Perhaps  it  was  a  humble  cot,  where  frugal  meals 

were  spread ; 
A  plain,  unostentatious  roof  above  the  infant  head  ; 


MEMORIES.  153 

Or,  maybe,  'twas  a  mansion  proud,  around  whose 

plenteous  board 
A  generous  hospitality  its  rich  libations  poured. 

But  whether  cot  or  stately  hall,  it  needs  not  to  in- 
quire ; 

Whether  the  boy  went  barefooted,  or  clad  in  rich 
attire ; 

Or  whether  she  who  gave  him  birth,  was  one  of 
haughty  air, 

Or  patient  being,  long  inured  to  housewife  toil  and 
care. 

Ah,  no !  it  is  not  circumstance  of  outward  good  or 

ill, 
Can  make  our  past  awake  within  the  sympathetic 

thrill; 
For,  whether  carved  elaborate,  or  plainly  wrought, 

the  frame, 
Our   memory's    faithful    portraiture    attracts    and 

charms,  the  same. 

That  was  a  proud,  eventful  day,  when  first  the  hope- 
ful son 

Forsook  the  age  of  baby  frocks,  and  put  those 
trousers  on ! 


154  POEMS. 

'Twas  on   a  pleasant  Sabbath   morn :  e'en  now  it 

makes  me  smile 
To  think  how  grand  he  marched  to  church,  and 

strutted  up  the  aisle ! 

That  jacket,  with  the  buttons  on!  their  brilliance, 

I'll  be  sworn, 
Beat  every  badge  or  epaulette  the  fellow  since  has 

worn ; 
And  there  were  pockets  big  enough  for  knife,  and 

top,  and  string — 
The  boy  was  hero  then,  be  sure,  and  happy  as  a 

king. 

And  you'll  remember,  like  enough,  about  that  fa- 
mous sled, 

With  hickory  runners,  natural  crook,  and  painted 
very  red. 

'Twas  christened  the  "  Excelsior,"  or  some  eupho- 
nious name, 

And  had,  upon  the  school-house  hill,  a  quite  distin- 
guished fame. 

And  when  you  coasted,  after  school ; — I  hope  you 
won't  deny — 

'Twill  do  no  harm  to  own  it  now,  but  boys  are  pre- 
cious sly — 


ITY 


MBMOBIES 


'Twas  quite  your  habit,  out  of  which  perhaps  some 

others  grew, 
To  offer  little  Jane  a  chance  to  slide  down  hill  with 


you! 


That  ancient  school-house  holds  a  place  in  memory 

still,  I  trow, 
Where  tasks   seemed   so  impossible,  and  time   so 

dreadful  slow  ; 
Where  "Webster's  Elementary"  was  sadly    dogs- 

eared  o'er, 
And  Peter  Parley  —  good  old  soul  —  became  an  awful 

bore  ! 

And  if,  perchance,  you  overstepped  that  most  pre- 

posterous rule, 
And  stood  convicted  of  the  crime  of  whispering  in 

school  ; 
Ah,  me!    what   childish   penitence  came  trembling 

from  your  tongue, 
As  o'er  your  head,  "  you  rascal,  sir  !  "  that  birchen 

sceptre  swung  ! 

Those  well-worn  desks,  if  standing  yet,  I'll  venture 

to  declare, 
Along  their  honored   surfaces,  your  famed  initials 

bear. 


156  POEMS. 

You  thought  it  was  a  clever  job,  done  up  exceeding 

brown; 
But  now,  the  letters  stand  askew,  and  one  is  upside 

down ! 

Of    merry   Christmas  holidays,   shall  I  forget    to 

sing? 
When  Santa  Glaus  a  fresh  supply  of  gifts  was  sure 

to  bring ; 
When  all  the  household  was  aglow  with  festive  mirth 

and  glee, 
And  each  young  urchin   donn'd  his  wreath,  and 

decked  his  Christmas  tree. 

Those  rows  of  stockings,  round  the  hearth,  arranged 

with  partial  care ; — 
What  wondrous  faith  in  dear  St.  Nick's  ubiquity 

was  there ! 
How  oft  we  strove  to  keep  awake,  so  haply  we  might 

hear 
The  clattering  sound  on  housetop,  of  the  phantom 

sledge  and  deer ! 

And  how,  as  morning  dimly  dawned,  with  emulous 

desire, 
Resounded  merry  welcomings  to  loving  dame  and 

sire; 


MEMORIES.  157 

And  o'er  each  treasure  brought  to  light,  its  new  pos- 
sessor gloried, 

And  in  its  turn  each  stocking-full  was  duly  invento- 
ried. 

The  feast,  too,  was  a  grand  affair  ;  when  all  the  aunts 
and  cousins 

Were  congregated  round  the  board  in  numbers  told 
by  dozens. 

No  Saratoga  can  restore  to  us  dyspeptic  sin- 
ners 

The  appetites  that  lent  the  sauce  to  those  prodig- 
ious dinners ! 

The  old  church,  with  its  moss-grown  tower,  whose 

structure  you  believed 
The  grandest  architectural   feat  the  race  had  e'er 

achieved, 
Has  now  a  double  sacredness,  as,  after  years  have 

sped, 
You  see  what  kindly  influences  about  your  path  it 

shed. 

How  grateful  on  the  list'ning  ear,  on  Sabbath  morn- 
ing, fell 

The  never-failing  summons  of  the  sweet  church-go- 
ing bell — 


158  POEMS. 

The  old  church-bell !  how,  latterly,  with  pleased  sur- 
prise, you  own 

What  else-neglected  memories  wake  in  freshness  at 
its  tone ! 

There,  in  the  wonted  place  of  prayer,  and  thankful 
praise,  and  song, 

You  lent  a  happy,  youthful  face  to  that  familiar 
throng. 

There  oft  you  stayed  with  Sabbath-school  and  vil- 
lage-choir, at  noon, 

And  learned  the  sacred  lesson,  and  the  good  old- 
fashioned  tune. 

The  gathered  throng  of  worshipers  is  vastly  changed 

to-day ; 
And  many  a  face  is  older  grown,  and  most  have 

passed  away. 
The  venerable  forms  you  knew,  as  rapid  years  have 

sped, 
Have,  one  by  one,  betaken  them  to  regions  of  the 

dead. 

The  parson  and  the  chorister  have  gone  their  sev- 
eral ways ; 

Another  voice  from  pulpit  now,  its  messages  con- 
veys; 


MEMORIES.  159 

And  Doctor  Watts,  in  some  absurd,  fantastic  garb, 

you  see, 
Whose  quaint  old  costumes  charmed  you  once — 

sweet  Corinth,  and  Dundee  ! 

Yet,  sometimes,  as  the  ancient  bell  from  out  the 
steeple  rings, 

And  Signer  Fiddle-faddle's  choir  some  old-time  an- 
them sings  ; 

Once  more  your  pulses  beat  response  to  welcome 
peal  and  strain, 

And  home,  and  youth,  and  all  the  dear  old  past  are 
back  again ! 

O,  all  ye  scenes  of  boyhood  days ;  what  stories  ye 
could  tell 

Of  joys  ye  mutely  witnessed  once,  of  griefs  that  once 
befel; 

Yet  long  as  time's  dominion  lasts,  it  shall  not  be  dis- 
covered 

Around  each  spot  what  cherished  thoughts  and 
memories  have  hovered. 

There's  many  a  patch  of  earth  beneath  the  over- 
spreading sky, 

Presents  no  feature  to  allure  the  casual  passer- 
by; 


160  POEMS. 

It  is  but  acre,  house  and  barn,  to  his  unthinking  gaze, 
Who  sees  it  unillumined  with  the  light  of  other  days ; 

Yet,  somewhere,  over  earth's  expanse,  there  gleams 

a  human  face, 
Gleams  ever  with  a  brighter  glow,  at  thought  of  that 

loved  place ; 

To  him,  how  truly  picturesque  its  scenery  appears, 
Up  through    the  length'ning  vista   of  irrevocable 

years  ! 

There  was  the  wanderer's  early  home  ;  there,  oft  in 

blissful  dream, 
Again  he  sports  upon  the  knoll,  or  paddles  in  the 

stream ; 
There  each  remembered  rock  and  tree  its  vigil  seems 

to  hold 
O'er  sacred  memories  of  the  past — the  scenes,  the 

times  of  old. 

This  makes  the  poetry  of  life ;  O,  doubt  not,  gra- 
cious friends, 

On  each  and  all — in  some  rare  moods — the  gentle 
muse  descends. 

Alas  !  our  words  can  ne'er  repeat  those  finer  strains 
that  roll 

Their  sweet  Eolian  harmonies  across  the  captive  soul. 


MEMORIES. 


161 


Enough  for  us,  if,  now  and  then,  some  power  the 

sense  o'erwhelms, 

And  tenderly  uplifts  us  into  bright,  ethereal  realms  ; 
And  almost,  in  strange  melodies,  wo  feel  to  us  is 

given 
To  catch   delicious   echoes   of  the   symphonies  of 

Heaven. 


To  merrier  measure  and  rollicking  rhyme, 
The  versatile  muse  bids  our  fancy  keep  tune  ; 
While,  just  for  the  moment,  wo  pass  in  review 
Some  prominent  scenes  which,  as  students,  wo  knew. 

Our  college  remembrances ; — bless  thee,  our  mother ! 
Who    mad'st    us    thy  children,   and    each    son    a 

brother — 

Not  least  of  thy  bounties  wo  reckon  the  tether 
Which  binds  us  as  parts  of  ono  household  together. 

Those  years  spent  in  college — how  brimming  the 

cup 

Which  their  fond  reminiscences  serve  to  fill  up  ; 
No  fraction  of  life-time  contributed  more 

To  the  treasures  our  memory  holdeth  in  store. 

• 

And  gladly  to-day,  as  we  joyfully  meet, 

The  old-time  acquaintance  and  class-mate  to  greet, 


162  POEMS. 

I  hail  the  occasion,  and  bid  ye  retrace 

The  fancies  that  clamor  for  uppermost  place. 

Come,  then,  fellow-students,  and  banish  your  fears ! 
Who  cares  that  your  Latin  has  rusted  for  years ! 
Let  Pegasus  furnish  }~our  "  pony  "  and  "  Smart ;" 
The  lesson's  an  old  one  ;  we'll  have  it  by  heart. 

No  matter  to-day  how  your  scholarship  stands ; 

I  tell  you,  the  record's  in  excellent  hands  ; 

And  as  to  who  "  flunked,"  or  with  "  honors  "  was 

flush, 
I've  some  personal  reasons  for  keeping  that  hush. 

That  verdant  young  Freshman  : — he's  since  become 

"  Colonel," 
Or   "M.   C.,"   or   "Judge,"   or    the   "boss"   of    a 

journal ; 

"  Professor,"  or  what-not ; — but  wasn't  he  green, 
When  he  came  on  to  college,  a  youth  of  sixteen  ! 

How  all  the  societies  bored  and  beset  him. 

To  see  if  he'd  do,  and  then — if  they  could  get  him. 

How  kindly  the  graduates  put  him  in  trim, 

And  sold  at  one  bargain  their  bedsteads  and — him  ! 

How  proud  when  accepted,  and  bidden  to  come, 
He  started  in  quest  of  his  room,  and  his  chum. 


MEMORIES.  163 

How  grandly  West  College  loomed  up  to  his  view ; — 
Of  its  dense  population,  how  little  he  knew ! 

How  the  Sophomores  grinned  as  he  scampered  down 
stairs 

At  the  first  chapel  bell,  the  first  morning,  for  pray- 
ers. 

How  ho  solved  from  that  moment  the  mystery  deep, 

How  to  make  most  of  time,  and  economize  sleep. 

How  ho  passed  each  ordeal  of  practical  joke  ; 
Discovered  how  blarney  ends  often  in  smoke ; 
And  when  Sophomores  raised  their  tumultuous  din, 
And  shouted  "  Heads  out !"  learned  to  keep  his  head 
in! 

And,  oh,  human  nature  ! — the  same  evermore — 
How  he  relished  the  fun,  as  he  reckoned  it  o'er  ; 
And  resolved  the  whole  farce  should  be  stoutly  re- 
vived, 
Just  as  soon  as  the  next  batch  of  Freshmen  arrived. 

How,  little  by  little,  'mid  college  routine, 
Some  marked  metamorphoses  came  to  be  seen ; 
And  the  youth  of  last  year,  very  verdant  and  raw, 
Came  to  have,  in  some  sphere,  quite  distinguished 
edat. 


164  POEMS. 

Perhaps,  my  dear  sir, — you  know  best  as  to  that — • 
Ton  became  college  champion,  with  ball  and  with 

bat; 

Perhaps,  when  you  spouted  your  maiden  oration, 
They  dubbed  you  next  "  Moonlight  "*  with  loud  ac- 
clamation. 

Perhaps  you  were  famous  for  muscle ;  and  so 
Whenever  the  class  above  yours,  or  below, 
Undertook  their  superior  force  to  declare, 
It  was  deemed  quite  essential  that  you  should  be 
there. 

Perhaps,  from  an  awkward,  unpromising  clown, 
You  became  the  Beau  Brummel  of  college  and  town. 
No  doubt  there  were  chaps  who  knew  more  of  Greek 

roots, 
But  you  beat  them  all  hollow  on  neck-ties  and  boots ! 

Perhaps  you  grew  partial  to  serpents  and  lizards  ; 
Caught  innocent  birds,  and  extracted  their  gizzards ; 
Of  the  College  Museum  became  the  curator, 
And  of  natural  science,  a  learned  revelator. 

Perhaps,  of  the  transits  you  sought  to  be  certain, 
And  as  each  night  uprolled  its  magnificent  curtain, 

*  Prize  speakers  at  "Williams  are  called  "Moonlights." 


MEMORIES.  165 

You  swung  that  huge  opera-glass  on  its  bars, 
Tow'rd  the  orbs  overhead  for  theatrical  stars. 

Perhaps,  of  companions  right  jocund  and  boon, 
You  thought  more  than  you  did  of  the  man  in  the 

moon ; 

And  while  your  old  chum  was  intently  star-gazing, 
Perhaps — maybe  not — but  perhaps,  you  were  "  haz- 

ing." 

Perhaps  you  loved  ease,  and  were  wont  to  invoke 
Your  quiet  day-dreams  'mid  the  incense  of  smoke ; 
While,  according  as  fancies  grew  brighter  or  duller, 
So  glowed  the  pet  meerschaum ; — pray,  how  did  it 
color  ? 

Perhaps  with  all  book-lore  your  mind  was  imbued, 
Excepting  the  text-books ;  and  those  you  eschewed. 
So,  despite  all  the  treasures  you  tried  to  amass, 
You  reigned  without  peer  at  the  foot  of  the  class  ! 

But  the  muse  must  forbear  ;  though  each  actor  and 

scene 

Might  be  colored  afresh  in  her  patent  machine  ; 
She  remembers  her  mission ;  'tis  but  to  suggest, 
While  your  fancies,  thus  quickened,  accomplish  the 

rest. 


166  POEMS. 

Then,  once  more,  ye  classic  scenes,  hail  and  fare- 
well! 

Around  ye  for  aye  shall  our  memories  dwell ; 
Nor  shall  absence  nor  distance  their  potency  prove, 
For  these  time-honored  places  to  'minish  our  love. 

And  lingering  now,  with  these  pictures  before  me, 
Warm,  filial  emotions  steal  pleasantly  o'er  me  , 
And  I  seem  in  glad  vision  to  recognize  one,* 
Whom  to  know,  was  to  yield  him  the  heart  of  a  son. 

O,  smooth  be  the  seas  and  auspicious  the  gales, 
That  shall  bear  up  the  ship  and  enliven  the  sails  ; 
And  again,  home-returned  from  Europa's  far  shore, 
To  these  scenes  and  high  duties,  his  presence  restore ! 

And  long  be  the  seasons,  while  yet  in  his  might, 
He  shall  live  to  do  battle  for  truth  and  the  right ; 
Till  at  last,  with  the  great  souls  departed,  at  rest, 
Thou  shalt  take  him,  dear  Father,  to  homes  of  the 
blest ! 

Of  tender  memories,  fain  the  muse, 
As  pensively  the  past  she  views, 

From  out  her  store  of  fragrant  fancies, 
A  wreath — a  delicate  wreath,  would  choose. 

*  President  Hopkins,  then  absent  in  Europe. 


MEMORIES.  167 

Bomantic  memories  ;  say,  proud  sir, 
"Was  aught  so  sweet  of  joys  that  were, 

As  troth  to  thee  by  fair  one  plighted, 
And  thine,  right  loyally  pledged  to  her  ? 

How  blissful  were  the  moments  spent 
At  eve,  to  loving  converse  lent, 

Beneath  the  stars,  whose  roguish  twinkle 
Lumined  the  gorgeous  firmament. 

Perchance  beneath  the  trysting  tree. 
Perchance  beside  the  sobbing  sea, 

Perchance  where  all  the  valley  echoes 
The  rivulet's  laughter,  wild  and  free  ; 

Perchance  in  bower,  perchance  in  grove, 
In  cloistered  court  or  dim  alcove ; 

O,  ever  somewhere,  somehow  ever 
Gushes  the  tremulous  syllable — Love  ! 

I  wot  she  was  a  maiden  fair, 

Her  bonny  face  was  free  from  care, 

How  most  angelic  seemed  each  feature, — 
How  like  a  halo  her  wreathed  hair ! 

And  eyes  of  brown  or  azure  hue 
Bespoke  a  nature  fond  and  true  ; 

A  heart  that  should,  with  glad  endeavor, 
Battle  the  ills  of  life  with  you. 


168  POEMS. 

How  oft  you  mused  with  hands  enclasped, 
Conversed  of  present  joys,  and  past, 

And  hopefully,  through  all  the  future, 
Happy,  adventurous  vision  cast. 

The  numerous  years,  perchance,  have  flown, 
Since  first  you  caught  the  thrilling  tone, 
From  maiden  lips  so  softly  faltered, 
Yielding  a  heart  that  was  all  your  own. 

The  lips  have  lost  their  ruby  now, 
That  erst  pronounced  the  hallowed  vow  ; 

And  time  has  since,  with  ruthless  finger 
Written  his  autograph  on  that  brow. 

Perchance — more  sad — that  form  hath  found 
Its  last  repose  low  in  the  ground ; 

And  Death,  remorseless,  holds  your  treasure 
Hidden  beneath  a  grassy  mound. 

And  sometimes,  as  you  chance  to  trace, 
In  childhood's  all-unconscious  face, 

Some  likeness  of  that  fond  companion, 
Summoned  from  thine  to  Christ's  embrace  ; 

Fain  from  itself  the  soul  would  flee ; 
For  of  God's  rare  gifts  to  such  as  we, 

I  almost  seem  to  hear  you  sighing, 
"  Saddest  of  all  is  Memory ! " 


MEMORIES.  169 

Of  patriot  memories  in  this  trying  hour, 
"When  bold-faced  treason  dares  assert  its  power ; 
When  faithless  sons,  with  sacrilegious  guilt, 
Assail  the  structure  which  their  fathers  built, 
The  muse  might  sing,  if  need  were,  to  instil 
In  hearts  like  these  a  nobler  zeal  and  will. 
What  glorious  memories  !  how  they  cluster  round 
Each  towering  shaft  and  olden  battle-ground. 
What  golden  letters  upon  history's  page 
Immortalize  the  hero  and  the  sage, 
Who  saved  our  country  from  oppression's  load, 
And  made  her  Freedom's  favorite  abode  ! 
What  memories  hover  o'er  that  ensign  proud, 
Whose  stripes  and  stars  above  the  battle  cloud, 
In  Freedom's  dawn,  and  high-advancing  day, 
In  glory  shone,  to  glory  led  the  way ! 
Beneath  that  banner,  how,  with  lapse  of  time, 
Our  land  hath  gained  a  prestige  more  sublime 
Than  in  historic  annals  can  be  told 
Of  all  the  empires  and  the  states  of  old. 
Happy  Columbia !  with  thy  memories  crowned, 
Though  traitors  lurk,  and  envious  foes  surround, 
Yet  who  that  builds  thee  in  his  heart  a  shrine, 
But  feels — aye,  knows — the  victory  shall  be  thine  I 
Those  very  memories  shall  thy  helmet  be, 
Thy  sword,  thy  shield,  thy  scathless  panoply. 


170  POEMS. 

Hapless  the  foe,  confronts  such  shining  mail ! 
His  arm  must  wither,  and  his  courage  fail. 
Said  I,  "  his  courage  ?  " — 'tis  that  desperate  kind, 
"Which  goes  by  stealth,  and,  trembling,  looks  be- 
hind. 

It  is  such  courage  as  would  fell  to  earth 
The  very  form  of  her  who  gave  him  birth. 
It  is  such  courage  as  would  pierce  the  breast, 
On  which  in  infancy  his  face  was  pressed, 
Or  level  prostrate  with  insensate  clods, 
His  fireside  altars  and  his  household  gods. 
Oh !  sure  as  truth,  and  truth's  eternal  laws, 
"We  hail  the  issue  of  so  righteous  cause, 
And  see  before,  as  with  prophetic  eye, 
The  grand  result — the  glorious  victory. 

And  that  great  victory ;  would  that  it  might  come 
By  war  unheralded,  or  roll  of  drum. 
Nay ;  better,  happier,  nobler  might  it  be, 
As  from  her  tripod  hints  the  Muse  to  me. 


In  the  fullness  of  time  I  behold  in  my  vision 
How  a  people  betrayed  shall  yet  utter  their  cry ; 
How  the   South,  their  false  leaders   shall   set  in 

derision, 
And  pronounce  their  pet  dogma  an  infamous  lie. 


MEMORIES. 

Then  again,  I  foresee,  how  from  fertile  savannah, 
And  happy  plantation,  with  grateful  accord, 
All  voices  shall  swell  the  resounding  hosanna — 
Hail,  blessed  re-union  ;  praise,  praise  to  the  Lord  ! 

Then  with  hearts  not  more  brave  than  magnani- 
mous ever, 

The  sons  of  the  North,  with  a  brotherly  grasp, 

And  a  welcome  embrace  that  no  traitor  shall 
sever, 

The  sons  of  the  South  shall  right  joyfully  clasp. 

Then  Memory,  her  mystical  chords  shall  re-waken, 
And  penitent  children  shall  weep  to  behold 
How  precious  the  boon  they  had  almost  forsaken, 
How  priceless  the  birthright  they  almost  had  sold ! 

Thou  God  of  our  fathers  !     O  hasten  the  season, 
When  once  again  Memory  her  incense  shall  burn 
On  altars  now  dim,  and  when  calm-visaged  Reason, 
To  the  throne  she  deserted,  shall  once  more  return, 

Then  as  ever,  Columbia,  advancing  in  glory, 
Of  the  faith  in  this  trial  her  children  possessed, 
To  unborn  generations  shall  transmit  the  story, 
Who  shall  rise  up  to  call  us — their  forefathers- 
blest! 


172  POEMS. 

Of  grand  old  memories,  such  as  live  sublime 

In  olden  history,  or  in  classic  rhyme  ; 

Of  legend  memories,  haply  passed  along 

In  dim  tradition,  or  unlettered  song  ; 

Of  local  memories,  we  have  cherished  well 

In  curious  tales  we  heard  our  grandams  tell — 

Of  ghost  and  spectre — dusky  squaw  and  chief, — 

Tales  wonder-fraught  and  staggering  belief ; 

Of  social  memories,  gratefully  restored 

In  rare  re-unions  round  the  festive  board ; — 

Of  each  and  all,  the  Muse  would  gladly  sing, 

But  Time  speeds  onward  with  resistless  wing ; — 

So  I  must  cease  ;  and  now  to  you,  dear  friends, 

The  grateful  Muse,  the  parting  hand  extends. 

Tour  warm  assurance,  overcame  her  fear ; 

Tour  partial  kindness  introduced  her  here  ; 

"What  thoughts  and  feelings  she  hath  well  expressed 

Remember  kindly,  and  forgive  the  rest. 

S.  B.  S. 


A  POEM.  173 


POEM 

DELIVERED  BEFORE  I.   O.   0.   F.,   SAN  FRANCISCO,  CAL., 
18G3. 

WHY  man  through  mourning  must  his  joys  enhance; 

His  reason  vaunting,  yet  commit  to  chance ; 

Why  Hope  paints  pictures  for  minds  immature 

Which  manly  learnings  change  not,  but  obscure, — 

In  fainter  light  leaves  youth's  ideals  to  men, 

To  mock  what  now  is,  with  what  might  have  been ; 

Why  men  despise  the  thing,  revere  the  form ; 

In  sunshine  cowards,  heroes  in  the  storm,— 

Self-torturing,  with  a  vague,  fictitious  harm, 

While  life's  broad  sea  is  mirrored  in  a  calm, 

Rising  with  strength  from  morbid  fancy's  threat, 

As  serious  dangers  compass  and  beset ; 

Why  words  by  moral  costumers  are  made 

Dark  dominos  in  life's  grand  masquerade, — 

Not  all  concealing,  yet  a  full  disguise  ; 

Why  single  names  form  constant  compromise 

'Twixt  good  and  evil,  simple  truth  and  lies  : 

"  I'rndent"  the  misers'  favorite  maxim-cry, 

By  which   the  world  commends  them  when   they 

die, — 

Whilst  "Generous,"  "Noble,"  "Liberal"  and  "Just" 
Are  terms  the  poor  pass  to  the  rich,  on  trust, — 


174  POEMS. 

With  "  Enterprise,"  the  letter-shield  of  lust, 

And  "  Charity,"  incarnate  in  a  crust ! 

Why  sweet  content  deserts  the  Monarch's  throne, 

And  claims  the  peasant's  cottage  as  her  own ; 

Why  harmony  of  thought  is  frequent  found 

Amid  the  discords  of  contentious  sound  ; 

Why  calms,  proverbial,  coming  storms  presage, 

And  are  but  omens  of  a  day  of  rage, — 

At  present  peace  foreshadowing  a  curse 

Which  Envies  iii  the  deeps  of  stillness  nurse  ; 

Why  Sciences  pretentiously  exact, 

Place  "  new  discoveries  "  on  the  roll  of  fact, 

Which  soon  their  venerated  being  give, 

That  one,  firm,  honest,  steadfast  Truth  may  live, — 

Since,  brought  in  contact,  they  themselves  conflict, 

And  point  in  focus  what  they  contradict ; 

Why  great  inventions  follow  in  the  wake, 

And  often  seem  the  creatures  of  mistake  ; 

Why  relished  sin  adopts  the  mode  and  time 

Sought  or  selected  by  compunctious  crime  ; 

Why  sin's  last  patent  notches  the  degree 

At  which  the  average  moral  stand  must  be  ; 

Why  failure  in  the  marts  of  trade  is  less 

A  synonym  for  ruin  than  success  ; 

Why  he  who  seeks  peremptory  relief 

Upon  the  highway  may  be  held  a  thief, 


A  POEM.  175 

Whilst  he  who  plunders  from  the  public  vaults 

Is  merely  weak,  and  amiable  in  faults ; 

Why  the  sage  public  o'er  a  fancy  frets 

While  Christian  churches  dance  away  their  debts  ; 

Why  creedless  wits,  who  flatulently  sneer 

At  every  dogma  which  the  mass  revere, 

Attain  to  fame  upon  the  false  pretense 

Of  doing  honor  to  man's  common  sense  ! — 

These  daily  mysteries  in  the  mighty  plan 
That  shapes  the  growth  and  discipline  of  man  ; 
These  lighter,  modern  marvels,  which,  perchance, 
Are  sample  offspring  of  strange  circumstance ; 
These  contrasts,  inconsistencies  and  frauds 
Hypocrisy  induces,  or  applauds, 
Contribute  in  a  ratio  and  concert 
To  fashion  evil  we  may  not  avert ; 
Produce  conditions  in  our  social  state 
Philosophies  explain  not,  nor  abate  ; 
Uncertain  render  temporal  needs  and  gains, 
Debauch  our  comfort  and  increase  our  pains  ; 
Confusion  cast  where  purposes  are  just, 
And  cripple  courage  with  a  hard  distrust ; 
The  private  and  the  public  prospects  shroud 
With  almost  an  impenetrable  cloud, — 
The  veil  which  hides  the  future  from  our  sight 
Prefix  with  gloom  and  deepen  into  night ;— 


176  POEMS. 

Add  to  the  blindness  nature's  laws  decree 
A  sad  misgiving  that  the  worst  will  be. 

A  Faith  divine  may  raise  the  mind  serene 
Above  the  trials  of  this  earthly  scene  ; 
A  heavenly  Hope  may  bring  the  soul  repose 
Amid  the  sternest  of  our  mortal  woes, 
And  build  a  patience  that  will  bravely  bear 
The  ills  of  time,  the  promptings  of  despair. 

Yet  learn  we  not  from  that  same  gracious  Book 
Within  whose  pages  saints  devoutly  look 
To  find  this  glorious  Faith  and  Hope  revealed  ; 
The  corner-stone  of  Promise  has  been  sealed 
With  this  inscription, — With  the  race  began 
THE  UNIVERSAL  BROTHERHOOD  OF  MAN  ! 

At  once  to  aid  the  spirit  in  its  strife 

For  noblest  elements  in  human  life, 

And  all  the  energies  of  soul  incite 

To  study  and  exemplify  the  EIGHT  ; 

With  righteous  thought  a  worthy  practice  suit, 

Confirm  and  nurture  honest  faith  with  fruit ; 

Interpret  into  acts,  enlarge  the  scope 

And  purify  the  properties  of  hope  ; 

An  actual  beneficence  educe 

By  schools  of  principles  explained  through  use  ; 


A  POEM.  177 

In  systematic  effort  teach  and  prove 

The  base  and  product  of  a  catholic  love  ; 

Remind  the  aged,  educate  the  youth 

As  to  the  beauty  and  the  power  of  truth  ; — 

With  these  grand  objects,  those  who  seek  will  find 

ODD-FELLOWSHIP  in  wisdom  was  designed. 

With  no  less  purpose  did  our  fathers  build 
This  sacred  Order  ; — in  whose  terms  fulfilled, 
Themselves  *and    their    true    children    have  been 

blest ; — 

Their  memory,  immortal,  stands  confest, 
Well  worthy  of  the  reverence  we  pay 
In  every  ceremonial  act  to-day. 

Our  honored  Fathers !  let  no  one  presume 
To  think  by  words  he  can  their  names  illume. 
What  of  their  fitting  eulogy  we  claim 
Has  not  been  written  in  the  Order's  fame. 
'Twould  be  unseemly  to  attempt  to  write, — 
'Tis  blazoned  elsewhere,  in  the  realms  of  light. 
In  chapters  which  no  earthly  eye  can  trace, 
Their  work,  unwritten  here,  has  glorious  place : 
A  work  obedient  to  the  Order's  laws, 
Or  instigated  in  its  noble  cause  ; 
A  work  of  Friendship,  so  divinely  odd, 
Its  record  the  prerogative  of  God  ! 


178  POEMS. 

A  work  which,  in  the  harvest  hour  of  time 
Shall  be  proclaimed  in  sweet,  celestial  rhyme  ! 

We  boast  of  Progress,  and  we  vastly  prize 
The  culture  of  the  arts  that  civilize. 
"We  pride  ourselves  that  we  were  haply  born 
Where  science  strides  and  literatures  adorn. 

Material  Greatness  is  the  public  theme  : 
The  popular  motives  are  condensed  in  steam. 
Each  fresh  advancement  in  mechanic  skill 
Inflames  conceit  and  magnifies  the  will. 
Once  fairly  harnessed,  genius  can  prepare 
New  uses  for  the  elements  in  air — 
Not  as  of  old  the  marriage  rites  perform, 
But  with  the  tokens  and  the  bolts  of  storm  ; 
Wing  Cupid's  arrows  with  electric  fires, — 
To  Hymen's  service  consecrate  the  wires ; 
The  bands  the  Grecians  thought  fair  Venus  wove, 
Snatch  from  her  fingers  and  commit  to  Jove  ; 
And,  for  the  tariff  which  the  law  allows, 
Transmit  and  register  connubial  vows  ; 
Audacious  'gainst  the  ancient  saying's  force  : 
Whom  Lightnings  marry,  Thunders  will  divorce  ! 

We  boast  of  Wealth !     The  privilege  to  amass 
Enjoyed  exclusive  by  no  favored  class. 


A  POEM.  179 

Riches  increasing  at  enormous  rate, 

And  swiftly  swelling  such  an  aggregate 

That,  within  reason,  it  must  surely  seem 

To  far  outstrip  the  miser's  wildest  dream. 

We  know,  of  late,  the  precious  ores  are  found 

In  such  profusion  as  affords  no  ground 

For  accurate  reckoning  of  prospective  yield  ; 

But,  from  the  recent  opulence  revealed, 

E'en  the  imaginative  broker  lords 

Fail  singly  guessing  what  their  tunnel  hoards, — 

The  sum,  so  fab'lous,  to  approximate 

With  giant  digits — must  incorporate  ! 

We  boast  of  multiplying  paths  of  trade, 

On  which  with  speed  large  revenues  are  made ; 

Pa tl is  so  direct,  so  very  smooth  and  wide, 

The  poor  to  fortune  regularly  ride  ;— 

Since  any  knave  may  pelt  his  dupe  with  rocks, 

Then  thrust  his  swollen  feet  in  public  stocks. 

Wo  boast  the  glory  of  our  common  schools  ; 

With    great    "  improvements "    made    by    modern 

rules. 

Where  the  stout  implements  which  were  in  vogue 
As  fit  correctives  for  a  truant  rogue, — 
To  spur  the  slothful,  break  the  stubborn  will, 
And  measured  lessons  thoroughly  instill, — 


180  POEMS. 

Have  been  converted  in  their  uses  here 
T'  instructive  "  objects,"  from  dire  things  of  fear  ! 
The  lash   or   rod,   which   once   was   thought,   for- 
sooth, 

A  natural  stimulant  for  the  sluggish  youth, — 
When  well  applied,  most  potent  to  obtain 
The  greatest  product  from  each  pupil's  brain, — 
Is  now  employed  by  every  teaching  Miss, 
As  in  the  new  Mnemonic  synthesis, 
Hinting  not  only  what  its  source  must  be, 
But  every  purpose  of  the  ox  or  tree. 
Not  to  the  physical  emotions  bring, 
On  sight,  suggestions  of  a  mortal  sting, 
But  sage  suggestions, — which  may  grow  apace 
All  planetary  "  objects  "  to  embrace  ! 

We  boast  a  cheap,  efficient,  speedy  mode 

Of  granting  justice  through  a  civil  code  : 

Whose  terms  provide  that  suitors,  who  may  feel 

Aggrieved  at  first  decisions,  can  appeal 

To  grand  tribunals,  where  each  concrete  case 

Is  aptly  furnished  with  an  abstract  face ; 

Where  facts  are  "  features,"  and  the  counsel's  whims 

Concerning  cognate  issues  are  the  "limbs." 

Where  lawyers — like  experienced  miners — fight 

For  claims  which  merely  have  the  color,  Eight, 


A  POEM.  18 

Where  skillful  logic  is  employed  to  show 

The  various  errors  of  the  court  below ; 

And  history,  like  a  criminal  arraigned 

To  show  the  reason  why  they  are — sustained. 

Or  the  emergencies  of  present  hours 

Are  plead  to  prove  discretionary  powers. 

But  where  by  judgments  we  are  not  beguiled, — 

Unk-ss  tlu  v  arc  through  inadvertence  filed. 

Cheap  is  the  mode  !     'Twas  Solomon's  advice  : 
My  son,  get  wisdom  at  whatever  price. 
Efficient !     Since  it  thoroughly  conveys 
Essential  knowledge  in  eccentric  ways, — 
Aiding  the  mind  by  each  peculiar  turn 
To  hold  the  lesson  it  deserved  to  learn. 
And  speedy  !     When  the  value  and  amount 
Of  wisdom  gained  is  taken  in  account. 

We  boast  a  penal  code ;  which  seems  to  shed 
Abundant  mercy  on  the  felon's  head. 
His  prison  roofed  by  statutory  laws 
With  open  sky-lights  of  ingenious  flaws  ; 
His  dungeon  door  barred  gently,  on  a  catch, 
Till  "  justice  "  nimbly  lifts  the  legal  lache  ! 

With  conscious  pity  are  our  minds  imbued 

For  those  who  lived  when  social  laws  were  crude, 

When  needs  were  simple,  when  the  arts  were  rude. 


182  POEMS. 

'Twere  stupid  Folly's  part  to  deprecate 

Outspoken  pride  at  our  advancing  state, 

In  all  that  make  convenience,  comfort,  ease, 

Save  time  and  labor,  or  the  senses  please. 

A  healthy  sentiment  of  pride  is  part 

Of  all  appreciative  sense  of  Art ; 

And  great  discoveries  in  themselves  denote 

To-day's  advantage  which  they  must  promote, — 

Compelling  us  with  flattery  to  contrast 

The  present  progress  with  the  ignorant  past. 

Our  education,  and  a  force  inborn, 
Tempt  us  to  see  primeval  times  with  scorn  ; 
And  with  an  ever  ready  reverence  bow 
Before  the  genius  of  Imperial  Now  ! 

Thus  do  we  fail  to  keep  in  prudent  mind, 

Favors  and  burdens  are  alike  assigned  ; 

Thus  do  we  fail  to  practically  own, 

With  social  progress  social  cares  have  grown  ; 

Ignore,  or — equally  at  fault — forget, 

As  our  advantage,  so  our  civil  debt ; 

As  the  complexities  of  life  increase, 

So  must  man's  labor  for  the  public  peace. 

Our  Fathers,  with  a  present  and  a  prescient  view, 
Which  history  clearly  outlined  and  which  reason  drew, 


A  POEM.  133 

Felt  and  forecast  necessities  of  deepening  weight 

For  some  grand  system  that  should  serve  to  miti- 
gate 

The  individual  penalties  of  common  sin, 

And  link  our  neighbors  in  the  ties  and  bonds  of  kin. 

—For  in  their  skillful,  moral  plan,  they  recognize 

Anarchial  dangers  from  mere,  sordid  enterprise. 

— The  holy  impulse  which  their  hearts  and  con- 
science fired, 

Seems  to  have  almost  made  their  beauteous  work 
inspired ; 

And  following  history,  thro'  a  lengthened  lapse  of 
time, 

Has  crowned  their  efforts  as  successful  and  sublime ! 

Then,  brothers  !  let  us  votive  offerings  bring, 
While  manual  outlines  we  attempt  to  sing  ;— 
Now,  while  we  celebrate  a  natal  morn, 
And  larger  Opportunities  are  born  ; 
Now,  when  our  banner  proudly  is  unfurled, 
And  we  avow  our  precepts  to  the  world. 

Come,  Stranger  !  ere  ye  seek  a  closer  name, 
Lend  audience  to  the  doctrines  we  proclaim  : 

How  do  we  learn  our  life  ?  how  read  the  page, 
As  Time's  hard  finger  quickly  throws  it  o'er  ? 


184  POEMS. 

With  what  reflections  do  we  grow  in  age, 
And  near  the  sands  of  th'  inevitable  shore  ? 

Full  soon  we  find  that  Heaven  has  well  decreed 

To  every  man  his  own  peculiar  fate  : 
With  following  hours  contrasting  thought  and  deed  ; 

With  years  all  barren,  and  with  moments  great. 

Full  soon  we  learn  a  law  of  equal  birth, 
To  which,  without  incongruous  act,  we  give 

A  holier  homage  in  the  scenes  of  earth  : 
Unto  himself  no  man  can  truly  live. 

A  thousand  times  the  precious  truth  we  hear ; 

Still  from  our  practice  it  remains  concealed  ; 
Till  blessed  sorrow  makes  our  wants  appear, 

And  all  adapted  uses  are  revealed. 

The  general  lessons  gathered  'mid  the  din 
Of  worldly  conflict,  triumph  or  defeat, 

Provoke  the  "  Delphic  Oracle  within," 
To  call  the  mind  to  Fellowship's  Retreat. 

Not  to  the  hut  of  hermit  or  recluse, 

Where  misanthropic  sentiments  are  nursed  ; 

Not  to  retirements  where  the  mean  excuse 
For  selfish  ease  is  Avarice's  sated  1  hirst : 


A  POEM.  185 

But  to  the  cloistered  company  of  those 
Whose  purpose  is  to  thoroughly  equip 

Good  soldiers  for  the  battles  'gainst  life's  woes, — 
That  test  the  champions  of  Odd-Fellowship. 

Here,  man  is  separated  from  the  world ; 

No  longer  burdened  with  fictitious  cares  ; 
No  more  within  Dissension's  eddies  whirled  ; 

No  longer  threatened  by  Ambition's  snares. 

Here,  Vice  no  more  is  potent  to  allure ; 

Here,  Hates  and  Envies  can  no  more  alarm  ; 
Here,  every  object,  motive,  work  is  pure, 

And  Virtue's  signet  is  the  regal  charm  ! 

Here,  Love  and    Friendship  hold    the    sovereign 
sway, — 

Their  mild  dominion  gloriously  assert : 
Thy  promise  all  their  precepts  to  obey 

Insures  the  benediction  they  concert. 

Here,  Faith  and  Charity  combine  to  bless 

The  weary  mind  with  heavenly  balm  of  Peace  ; 

Assuage  with  sympathy  the  heart's  distress, — 
For  sorest  trouble  give  or  point  release. 

Should  any  round  this  sacred  altar  bow 
Who  will  not  cherish  what  they  here  declare  ; 


186  POEMS. 

Who  will  not  follow  the  initiate's  vow 

With  earnest  hopes  in  resolution's  prayer  ; 

Presumptuous  Mortal !  Wouldst  thou  dare  approach 
Where  on  the  recreant  falls  a  fearful  ban  ? 

Canst  thou  a  talismanic  secret  keep  ?— 
Then  show  the  fortitude  becomes  a  man ! 

Alas  for  man  !     In  darkness  and  in  chains, 
In  moral  blindness  and  by  passions  bound  : 

A  mournful  spectacle  where  folly  reigns, 
And  wisdom's  voice  is  an  unheeded  sound. 

There  is  a  time  most  fitting  to  confess — 
When  stern  ordeal  of  trial  is  at  hand — 

The  grievous  errors  which  the  mind  oppress, 
And  give  to  conscience  sceptres  of  command. 

O  !  sad  remembrances  of  wrong,  awake  ! 

Now  is  the  hour,  repenting,  to  reveal 
The  sins  which  by  their  recollection  break 

From  retrospect  the  dark,  funereal  seal 

If  ever  thou  hast  mean  advantage  gained  ; 

O'er-reached  thy  fellow  with  a  plann'd  deceit, — 
His  honor  blasted  while  in  friendship  feigned, 

His  fortune  ruined  by  a  studied  cheat ; 


A  POEM.  187 

If  thou  hast  robbed  the  widow's  house,  and  made 
Long  prayers  in  public  an  availing  cloak 

Against  that  knowledge  thou  wer't  well  afraid 
"Would  just  and  quick  retributive  provoke  ; 

If  thou  hast  caused  the  orphan's  tears  to  flow, 
Hast  sought  his  golden  portion  to  purloin  ; 

And  then,  a  savoring  charity  to  show, 

Heaped  shallow  saucers  with  the  smallest  coin ; 

O  !    answer  truly, — at  thy  soul's  expense ! 

Confess,  if  guilty,  and  at  once  retire : 
For  else  than  innocent  of  grave  offence 

Thou  mayst  not  bide  the  dreadful  track  of  fire  ! 

Life's  painful  end  life's  duties  best  can  teach. 

Emblems  of  mortal  struggling  and  of  death 
The  heart  not  lost  to  human  hope  must  reach, 

And    touch   the   conscience  with   compunctious 
breath. 

He  who  is  fit  and  able  to  endure 

The  early  discipline  of  bonds  and  night, 

Deserves  for  recompensing  to  procure 
The  fullest  liberty  and  clearest  light. 

In  this  true  Light  may  Brothers  ever  walk ; 
This  Liberty  without  abuse  enjoy. 


188  POEMS. 

May  no  false  signals  tempt  them  but  to  mock, 
No  sensual  charms  solicit  and  destroy. 


Hail !  master  workmen,  who  to-day  unite 

In  services  of  dedicating  power. 
In  ample  form  conduct  the  solemn  rite, 

And  consecrate  the  building  and  the  hour. 

May  the  grand  invocations  which  ye  raise 
The  gracious  favor  of  our  God  obtain  ; 

And  may  your  choral  symphonies  of  praise 
Ascend  to  Heaven  in  an  accepted  strain. 

From  out  the  bustle  of  the  crowded  street, 
From  out  the  tumult  of  the  business  mart, 

May  yonder  house  be  our  beloved  retreat, — 
The  home  we  cherish  with  the  mind  and  heart. 

Within  its  walls  may  harmony  abound  ; 

May  Honor's  court  be  firm  established  there  ; 
May  royal  truth  be  there  enthroned  and  crowned, 

And  glorious  visions  for  her  sons  prepare  ! 

O  !  may  our  brethren  be  exceeding  glad 
Before  the  shrine  erected  there  to  wait ; — 

In  regal  vestitures  of  scarlet  clad, 

Hejoice  to  stand  within  our  temple's  gate  ! 


A  POEM. 

Brother,    Grand    Herald    of    the    North!      Pro- 
claim 

A  consecration  in  ptiro  FRIENDSHIP'S  name  ; 
And,  sprinkling  water,  dedicate  this  place 
To  constant  practice  in  that  heavenly  grace. 

Brother,  Grand  Herald  of  the  South  !     Approve 
This  work, — a  Temple  of  enduring  LOVE  ; — 
And  typify  our  kindled  hearts'  desires 
With  brilliant  lightings  of  the  altar  fires. 

Brother,  Grand  Herald  of  the  East !     Declare  : 
Here  TRUTH'S  good  seed  shall  fall,  and  spring  and 

bear 

An  hundredfold, — to  widely  save  and  bless, 
And  wreathe  with  honor  in  a  right  success. 

Brother,  Grand  Herald  of  the  West !     Foretell : 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity  alike  shall  dwell 
Within  these  consecrated  scenes  of  ours  ; 

And  fill  the  common  air 
AVith  fragrant  incense,  as  the  scattered  flowers 

Breathe  perfumes  everywhere. 

And  Brothers  all !     Unite  in  earnest  prayer 
That    this    grand    work    may    have    a    heavenly 
care  : 


190  POEMS. 

That  with  the  Father's  blessing,  this  good  Order 

may  increase, — 
"Whose  ways  are  ways  of  pleasantness,  and  all 

whose  paths  are  Peace." 

C.  A.  S. 


LINES. 


LINES, 

READ  AT  A  SUPPER  GIVEN  BY  PARLEY  A.  R ,  TO   HIS 

MASONIC   BRETHREN,  IN  CELEBRATION  OF  HIS 
MARRIAGE. 

OUR  worthy  Senior  Deacon,  boys,  has  had  a  fit  come 

o'er  him, — 
As  many  a  worthy  fellow  has,  who's  gone  this  way 

before  him : 
In  short,  he's  joined  another  lodge,  with  obligations 

new, 
Whose  secrets  can  be  given  in  the  presence  of  but 

two. 

I  know  you'll  think  it  mighty  strange  that  such  a 
tender  passion 

Should  overcome  so  stout  a  heart  in  such  a  won- 
drous fashion ; 

You'll  think  the  deuce  is  in  it,  when  you  find  that 
aught  can  weaken 

The  stoical  proclivities  of  this  our  Senior  Deacon. 

Just  lend  your  ears,  then,  for  a  "jiff,"  and  listen 

while  your  "Master" 
Relates  the  actual  history  of  this  singular  disaster  : 

fC^^yt 

OK   THE 

"CTNIVERSITY 

<v-  rfr;;: 


192  POEMS. 

How  Parley  came  to  parley  with  the  lass  that's  now 
his  bride : 

How  Molly  plied  her  arts  until  the  youth  was  molli- 
fied. 

'Twas  on  a  pleasant  Sabbath  eve — it  seems  to  linger 

yet, 

"With  balmy  odors,  soft  as  when  that  loving  couple 

met; — 
The  world  was  mostly  gone  to  rest ;  the  "  witching 

hour  "  drew  nigh  ; 
And  still  this  pair  were  strolling  forth  beneath  the 

starry  sky. 

Our  brother,  for  a  deacon,  seemed  in  quite  hilarious 

mood. 
No  doubt  the  learned  discourse  that  day  had  done 

him  "heaps  "  of  good. 
"  Love  one  another,"  was  the  text  the  parson  had 

selected ; 
Its  queer  effects  the  reverend  man  could  hardly  have 

expected ! 

:<  You  are  a  Mason,  I  presume  ?  " — began  the  curious 

Molly  ;- 
"  I  hardly  thought  you'd  ever  stoop  to  such  a  piece 

of  folly ; 


LINES.  193 

But,  since  you've  gone  and  done  this  thing,  I'll  tell 

you  what  I'll  do  : 
I'll  e'en  propose  to  have  you  make  of  me  a  Mason 

too!" 

"  Well,  really !"  said  our  startled  friend  ;  "  if  now, 
upon  your  word, 

You  make  this  proposition  of  your  free  will  and  ac- 
cord ; 

And  if  you'll  keep  the  secret  from  the  ears  of  all  cre- 
ution, 

I'll  e'en  proceed  this  very  hour  to  your  initiation." 

He  clasped  her  hand  within  his  own  ;  he  drew  her 

fondly  to  him  ; 
His  heart  began  to  palpitate ;  a  rapturous  thrill  went 

through  him  ; 
And  from  their  lips,  as   stood  the  pair   upon  the 

grassy  lawn, 
There  came  a  sound — as  if  a  cork  were  being  slowly 

drawn. 

This    most    delightful    ceremony    thrice    repeated 

there, 
Gave  out  its  tell-tale  whisper  on  the  circumambient 

air; 


194  POEMS. 

Then  spake  the  Senior  Deacon,  beneath  the  trysting 

tree, 
In  accents  low  and  tender  :  "  Molly,  that's  the  first 

degree !" 

I  rather  think  she  liked  it ;  at  any  rate  she  said 
She  didn't  see  so  very  much  in  Masonry  to  dread  ; 
And  if  he'd  only  promise  her  to  be  a  faithful  brother, 
She'd  pass  on  from  the  first  degree,  and  undertake 
another. 

I  saw  it  not,  but  I  suspect  that  if  the  truth  were 

known, 
'Twas  on  the  second  step  that  most  the  fellow's  craft 

was  shown ; 
'Tis  said  he  gave  her  lectures  on  the  liberal  arts  and 

sciences, 
Believing  the  monotony  by  Cupid's  soft  appliances. 

And,  finally,  it  came  to  pass,  in  proper  course  of 
time, 

That  he  conferred,  and  she  received,  the  third  de- 
gree sublime. 

It  was  a  famous  wedding,  and  we  all  beheld  with 
pride, 

How  Molly  was  transfigured  from  a  maiden  to  a 
bride. 


LINES.  195 

There,  brothers,  that's  the  story  ;  the  Deacon's  still 
our  own; 

Still  stands  within  our  circle,  but  no  longer  stands 
alone ; 

For  the  pledge  that  we  have  taken,  and  shall  cher- 
ish during  life, 

Now  protects  beneath  its  aegis  yet  another  Mason's 
wife. 

Then  here's  a  cordial  health  we  drink  to  Parley  and 

to  Molly : 
May  all  their  days  be  free  from  grief  and  sombre 

melancholy ; 
Till  that  Celestial  Lodge  above  shall  ope  its  golden 

portals, 
To  welcome  them,  both  bride  and  groom,  among  the 

blest  immortals. 

S.  B.  S. 


196  POEMS. 

LINES, 

BEAD  AT  A  DINNER  GIVEN   BY  DR.  C.   T.    COLLINS  TO  THE 

BERKSHIRE    MEDICAL    SOCIETY,  AT  INDIOLA  PLACE, 

GREAT  BARRINGTON,  MASS.,  JULY  30,   1862. 

THAT  Collins  is  the  nurse  for  me  ;  he  gets  one's  diag- 
nosis, 

And  then  prescribes  his  medicines  in  allopathic 
doses. 

In  fact,  so  great  his  faculty  for  treating  lung  and 
limb, 

The  very  Faculty  itself  is  "  treated  "  now  by  him. 

I  met  the  Doctor  on  the  street ;  he  grasped  me  by 
the  hand ; 

He  looked  me  over,  felt  my  pulse,  then  sgoke  in  ac- 
cents bland : — 

"  How  are  you,  friend  ?"  but,  strange  to  tell,  he  ab- 
solutely laughed 

To  learn  that  I'd  been  ailing  since — they  talked 
about  a  draft ! 

"  Well,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  your  complaint  is  dread- 
fully contagious  : 

I  find  the  neighborhood  is  full  of  men  who  talk 
courageous ; 


LINES.  197 

Their  tongues  are  loud  enough  to  make  you  prick 

your  ears  in  wonder, 
But  there's  some  kink  about  their  legs  to  make  them 

run  like  thunder ! 

But  this  is  neither  here  nor  there  ;  the  war  is  quite 
exciting ; 

But  my  affair,  as  you  shall  see,  is  vastly  more  invit- 
ing. 

The  Berkshire  Doctors,  one  and  all,  from  valley,  hill 
and  heather — 

I'm  going  to  have  them,  Wednesday  week,  around 
my  board  together. 

Of  flesh  and  fowl  I  mean  to  have  a  bountiful  selec- 
tion, 

And  let  these  chaps  just  try  their  hands  at  post  mor- 
tem dissection. 

I'll  show  our  folks  a  clever  trick,  and  let  the  people 
see 

How,  under  certain  circumstances,  doctors  can 
agree. 

And  then,  to  give  the  dinner  some  celebrity,  you 

know, 
I  want  the  village  parsons,  and  the  lawyers,  in  a 

row. 


198  POEMS, 

The  three  professions  all  combined  afford  a  thorough 

teaching — 
You  see,  ours  do  the  practicing ;  the  clergy  do  the 

preaching. 

Our  neighboring  men  of  letters,  and  a  few  "  F.  F. 
G.  B's  "- 

I  shall  surely  lay  some  covers,  and  reserve  some 
seats  for  these ; 

And  chaps  whose  wives,  like  yours  and  mine,  have 
rather  wholesome  faces, 

Must  give  their  spouses,  as  of  right,  the  most  con- 
spicuous places. 

I  shall  prescribe  a  dose  all  round,  adapted  to  re- 
vealing 

'  The  warm,  champagny,  old-particular,  brandy-pun- 
chy feeling ;' 

And  when  the  heavy  masticating  processes  are  done, 

We'll  have  a  little  flow  of  soul,  and  sentiment,  and 
fun. 

There's  Duncan,  way  from  Williamstown — you  knew 

him  when  in  college, — 
His  head's  a  perfect  reservoir  of  sparkling  wit  and 

knowledge ; 


LINES.  199 

And  there's  the  veteran  Doctor  Childs — God  bless 
him !  he  enjoys, 

At  four-score  years,  to  hold  his  youth,  and  be  one 
of  the  boys ! 
*****  -x- 

I'll  have  these  fellows  trotted  out,  and  make  them 
show  their  paces, 

And  put  them  through  an  exercise  of  intellectual 
races ; 

And  those  who  hold  allegiance  to  some  other  learn- 
ed vocation, 

May  add  their  tribute  to  the  flow  of  mutual  admira- 
tion. 

And  as  for  you,  pray  bring  along  your  little  play- 
ful muse, 

And  let  her  dance  a  lively  jig  in  lightly-stepping 
shoes. 

Don't  let  her  fear  the  wise  old  heads  with  whom  she 
comes  to  mingle  ; — 

I'll  warrant  she  can  fool  them  all  with  her  delusive 
jingle." 

I  tried  to  have  myself  excused,  and  all  that  sort  of 

thing — 
The  same  as  nice  young  ladies  do  when  importuned 

to  sing ; — 


200  POEMS. 

But  "  No,  you  simply  must,"  was  all  the  Doctor  had 
to  say ; 

Then  left  me  in  a  mute  surprise,  and  went  his  home- 
ward way. 

And  so  I  come  ;  and  just  to  take  some  vengeance  on 

my  friend, 
I  tell  you   the  whole  story,  from  beginning  unto 

end. 
You  now  perceive  precisely,  what  the  Doctor  was 

about — 
His  notion  was — to  call  us  in,  and  then,  to  call  us 

out. 

But,  notwithstanding,  since  we're  here,  and  feeling 

somewhat  mellow, 
We  may  as  well  own  up  at  once  that  he's  a  first  rate 

fellow. 
He  plies  his  arduous  calling  with  a  wondrous  skill 

and  vigor, 
And  keeps  a  big  establishment,  but  keeps  a  heart 

that's  bigger. 

And  once  or  twice  in  every  year,  as  sure  as  the  re- 
turning 

Of  planets  through  their  giddy  paths,  the  festal 
lamps  are  burning 


LINES.  201 

Around  the  Doctor's  board  ;  and  not  to  be  of  those 

who  go  there, 
To  use  a  vulgar  idiom,  is  simply  "  to  be  nowhere." 

A  health,  then,  to  the  Doctor !  may  genial  skies  be 

o'er  him, 
And  troops  of  friends  around  him,  and  pleasing  hopes 

before  him ; 
"  May  his  heart  preserve  its  freshness,  and  the  light 

of  life's  young  day, 
With  softened,  radiant  glory  shine  upon  his  evening 

way." 

In  freedom,  peace  and  plenty,  may  it  be  his  to  dwell  • 
May  he  have  hosts  of  patients,  and  may  they  all  get 

well; 
And  of  that  favor'd  number,  may  all  here  present 

be; 
And  when  he  does  this  thing  again,  may  we  be  here 

to  see. 

S.  B.  S. 


202  POEMS. 


WOKDS. 

LINES    READ    BEFORE    THE    SACRAMENTO  LIBRARY  ASSO- 
CIATION,  FEBRUARY  3,  1860. 

NECESSITY,  that  stems  all  law 

And  brooks  of  no  delay, 
Engulphed  the  gentle  friend  I  saw 

One  week  ago  to-day. 

His  modest  way,  his  honest  smile, 

His  'customed  accents  bland, 
Had  given  place  to  stoutest  style 

Of  summons  and  command. 

It  was  the  old,  old  tale  of  woe, 

Since  Lyceum  Leagues  began  ; 
That  will  not  tolerate  a  "  No  ", 

'Gainst  that  committee-man. 

When  bureau  stars  beguile,  betray, 

And  leave  in  wretched  plight, 
Who  else  must  save  from  blank  dismay 

But  some  domestic  wight  ? 

His  prose  may  lack  Athenian  grace ; 
His  rhymes  may  be  "  the  worst ;" 


WORDS.  203 

Nor  mother  wit  nor  wisdom's  trace, 
In  either  product  nursed  ; 

A  youth,  perchance,  who  early  met 

His  all-sufficient  test ; 
And  only  asks  they  may  forget 

Who  heard  him  at  his  best ! 

Well  known  for  all  he  is  and  ain't, — 

For  all  he  can't  and  can  ; 
He  is  a  lecturer,  poet,  saint, 

To  that  committee-man. 

Such  was  the  basis  of  salute 

And  orders  to  attend, 
Which  brought  me  here  without  dispute, — 

Obedient  to  my  friend. 


In  choosing  a  topic,  why  need  I  be  driven  ? 
The  goddess  of  rhyming  was  specially  shriven. 
I  list  principles  always  supply  the  best  plan, — 
My  groundwork,  all-spanning,  is  primitive  man. 

So,  out  from  your  Eden,  old  Adam  of  kin  ! 
Before  you  e'er  fell  in  the  pitfalls  of  sin  ; 


204  POEMS. 

While  faith  in  your  heart— then  the  fountain   of 

truth, 

Endowed  thee  unselfish,  immortal  in  youth. 
Before  having  learned  o'er  foul  flesh-pots  to  gloat, 
The  core  of  your  system  was  fixed  in  your  throat. 
Your  palate  delighting  in  nuts  and  herbs  raw, 
And  your  bones  benedictive  of  pallets  of  straw. 
Thy  paradise  dwelling  and  service  should  teach 
Beginning,  and  object,  and  evils  of  speech. 


For  every  living  animal  was  set  a  certain  voice, 

In  different  tones  and  emphasis  of  which  they  could 

rejoice. 
Distinctive  as  their  outward  forms  was  each  one's 

range  of  sound ; 
The  treble  and  the  screech  on  wings,  the  roar  upon 

the  ground. 
And  these  beyond  the  mere  physique  declared  the 

race  and  kind ; 
Fixed  key-notes  for  each  temper,  from  the  panther 

to  the  hind  ; — 

For    each,  by  laws  of    harmony   phrenology  em- 
ploys, 
Expressed  in  fullest  narrative  their  natures  in  their 

noise. 


WORDS.  205 

But  what  was  his  peculiar  voice  who  ruled  above  the 
beast; 

Who  walked  amid  perennial  fruits,  sole  monarch  of 
the  feast? 

What  single  tone  could  indicate  his  majesty  and 
might ; 

Assert  at  once  his  scope  of  will,  his  purpose  for  the 
right? 

Not  all  the  various  instinct  sounds  which  from  the 
herd  ascend, 

Not  all  the  sweetest  songsters'  notes  that  did  en- 
chanting blend, 

Could  form  a  language  for  the  man : — a  mirror  to 
disclose 

A  record  for  the  earnest  thoughts  that  in  his  roam- 
ings  rose. 

The  first  commission  given  to  man,  in  which  his 
speech  was  made, — 

The  last  self-gift  of  Him  who  spake,  and  all  things 
else  obeyed, 

Was  when  the  creeping  things  of  earth  in  trains  be- 
fore him  came, 

And  what  man  chose  to  check  them  off,  to  each  one 
was  the  name  ; 

Which  natural  history  catalogue  proved  Adam  not 
a  mute  : 


206  POEMS. 

As  tickled  to  articulate,  his  voice  invoiced  the 
brute. 

But  tho'  the  earth  bore  fruits  and  flowers,  regardless 
of  expense, 

Yet  was  no  help-meet  found  for  man  within  the 
garden  fence. 

One  night  he  slept  a  deeper  sleep  than  he  had  ever 
known, 

And  when  he  woke,  and  conscious  breathed,  he  miss- 
ed a  bosom  bone. 

While  pondering  on  this  sudden  loss,  resolved  a 
cause  to  draw 

For  this  exsection  of  a  rib,  his  Arab  wife  he 
saw! 

Then  as  man  slept  and  woke  betimes,  we  must,  per- 
force, believe, 

'Twas  early  on  a  cloudless  morn  when  Adam  first 
knew  Eve ! 

Speechless  he  stood  !  and  when  for  words,  new-syl- 
labled, he  strove, 

He  learned  himself  spell-bound,  enrapt,  o'erwhelmed 
in  mastering  love ! 

Through  his  suspense  at  last  he  broke,—- exclaimed 
in  lordly  tone  : — 

"O,  woman!  we  are  flesh  of  flesh  and  bone  of  very 
bone ! " 


WORDS,  207 

Tims  did  the  man  the  woman  call ;  their  union  thus 

decide ; 
And  with  these  words  unbridled  he  the  sweet  tongue 

of  his  bride ! 

Which,  from  the  day  it  was  unloosed,  has  never 

ceased  to  go — 
With  words  of  kindness  and  content ;  but  very  rarely 

slow. 
Indeed,  it  seems  as  tho'  it  was  implanted  in  her 

heart, 
Not  to  forget — if  e'er  forgive — that  Adam  had  the 

start! 

Such  was  Eve's  fancy  to  converse  for  conversation's 
sake, 

That  when  her  spouse  was  tired  of  talk  she  gossiped 
with  a  snake ; — 

Whose  sinuous  counsel  caused  her  fall,  and  brought 
a  common  woe 

On  all  her  offspring,  who  persist  in  sinning  here  be- 
low. 

******* 

It  came  to  pass  the  sons  of  Noah  were  traveling  to 
the  west ;  - 

They  cried  :  "  Go  to  !  come  let  us  build  a  tower  and 
city,  lest 


208  POEMS. 

We  should  be  scattered  all  abroad,  upon  the  plan- 
et's face, 

Instead  of  bound  in  unity  of  residence  and  race  ; 

And  ]et  the  tower's  top  ascend,  a  monument  of  fame, 

Which,  to  all  coming  sons  of  men,  our  craft'ness 
shall  proclaim. 

Aye,  let  the  apex  of  the  tower  to  Heaven  in  glory 
reach  : 

For  can  we  not  make  well-burnt  brick,  and  have  we 
not  one  speech  ?" 

But  lo !  go  to !  the  sons  of  men  are  suddenly  dis- 
persed ; 

For  their  rash  plan,  with  languages  a  thousand  times 
accurst. 

What  awful  force  was  manifest  in  words  of  close  intent, 

When  persons  parted  as  they  called  adobe  for  cement ! 

Amazed,  confused,  enraged,  they  sloped, — each  fam- 
ily alone ; 

And  on  their  toil  in  Shinar's  land  the  sun  no  longer 
shone. 
****** 

Now,  with  a  leap  across  the  years — with  your  kind 

approbation — 
We  leave  the  scattered  ancient  tribes  for  our  folks' 

Yankee  nation. 


WORDS.  209 

No  matter  what  has  passed  between,  we  have  this 

sure  conclusion  : — 
And  those  who  litigate  the  point  remain  in  weak 

delusion  : — 
Words  are  our  staple,  and  produced  in  wonderful 

profusion. 

In  pulpit  and  upon  the  stump,  in  market  and  in  fo- 
rum,— 

Wherever  two  or  three  may  chance  to  make  a  busi- 
ness quorum, — 

There  you  will  find  some  smart  pretense,  for  wealth 
or  honor  seeking ; 

And,  nine  in  ten,  his  capital  exhausts  itself  in  speaking. 

The  wordy  man !  I  know  him  well,  and  I  have  known 
him  long — 

Proportioned  to  his  lack  of  brain,  his  lungs  are  large 
and  strong. 

The  wordy  man  !  I  know  him  well ;  his  temper  and 
his  fashion ; 

His  drawling  trick  for  wisdom's  calm,  his  simulated 
passion. 

For,  shine  or  storm,  'tis  all  the  same ;  his  plethoric 
condition 

Responds  with  hopper  evenness  to  every  feed  peti- 
tion. 


210  POEMS. 

His  logic  rests  on  simple  stress  of  cop'lative  con- 
junction ; 

O'er  sense  of  tense  lie  rides  rough-shod,  with  rhap- 
sodizing unction. 

Some  simple  man,  reputed  well  about  his  native  vil- 
lage, 

Where  he  has  gained  a  competence  in  store-trade  or 
in  tillage, 

Has  nursed  the  thought  for  many  a  year,  in  honest 
meditation, 

That  he  was  born  for  eminence  in  councils  of  the 
nation. 

In  farmers'  clubs  and  miners'  leagues  he  leaks  his 
"  proud  ambition ;" 

Suggests  what  Congressmen  should  do,  on  such  and 
such  condition. — 

Premises  or  concludes  with  hints  about  a  vain  ob- 
lation 

Of  solid  truth,  when  feeble  minds  control  our  dele- 
gation ! 

His  hour  at  last !  The  neighbors  say  :  "  John  Smith's 
an  honest  nature — 

Let's  send  him  down  to  'represent*  in  tfna  year's 
legislature." 


WORDS.  211 

"  Agreed,"  say  all ;  agreement  is  in  caucus  forms 
perfected ; 

And  in  due  course  John  Smith  is  hailed  "  Assem- 
blyman elected." 

Now  squarely  on  the  road  to  fame,  he  must  assume 
a  standing, 

In  manners  and  in  dress,  alike  respectful  and  com- 
manding. 

For  weeks  before  the  session  time,  that  nothing  may 
be  lacking, 

His  new  boiled  shirts  and  broadcloth  coat  are  placed 
in  careful  packing. 

Once  at  the  capital,  he  feels  his  genius  hugely  swell- 

fcgr- 

And  what  may  be  his  final  post  there's  no  prophetic 

telling ! 

Now,  all  his  energies  are  taxed,  his  brain  is  overladen 
With  matter  from  the  choice  of  which  to  pick  phil- 

lipics,  maiden. 

Lo !  now  this  legislator  shouts,  'mid  wild  expectoration ; 
Tfifl  eye  dilates,  his  breast  upheaves  with  dreadful 

respiration. 
The  hall  is  close  with  crowding  sounds,  with  words 

is  atmospheric ; — 
He  gains  his  climax  with  a  shriek  that  borders  on 

hysteric. 


212  POEMS. 

He  ends !   and  ends  his  public  life — for,  with  the 

term  expiring, 

He  finds  his  "  painful  duty  "  is  to  beat  a  sad  retiring. 
His  age  consoles :  his  efforts  were  abortive  from  their 

lateness ! 
And  so  he  bids  a  "long  farewell "  to  politics  and 

greatness. 

The  man  of  words !  I  know  him  well ;  his  every  form 
and  feature 

Present  to  me,  in  simple  guise,  a  most  familiar  crea- 
ture. 

While  prominent  upon  the  list — -by  general  conces- 
sion— 

The  actual  act  of  public  talk  is  not  in  his  profession. 

In  short — for  short  is  his  address — his  business  is 
the  writing 

Of  speeches  in  the  proper  shape  from  very  poor  in- 
diting. 

He  takes  a  threadbare  piece  of  cloth ;  re- weaves  it, 
clean  and  shining — 

Ah  !  mysteries  and  miseries  of  his  acute  refining ! 

"Who  knows  of  his  alchemic  toil  ?  who  thanks  him 
for  his  study 

O'er  crucibles  of  ugly  signs  ; — expressions  rank  and 
muddy? 


WORDS.  213 

Evolving  from  a  jumbled  mass  some  thoughts  of 
useful  meaning ; 

From  loads  of  innutritious  chaf£  some  wheaten  ker- 
nels gleaning. 

Is  gratitude  for  such  a  work,  from  wordy  men  expected? 

Where  toughest  skill  is  exercised,  least  debt  is  recol- 
lected. 

I've  seen  unnumbered  Solons  gloat,  in  halls  of  legis- 
lation, 

Because  the  text  constituents  quote  enhanced  their 
reputation  ;— 

Until  their  fame  collapsed  in  shame,  from  one  good, 
square  translation ! 

Words  for  the  million !  Who  will  get  a  patent  right 
for  pumping 

The  greatest  number  in  the  space  allowed  for  party 
stumping  ? 

Where  Norman  French  derivaties,  promiscuous  and 
excessive, 

Are  used  to  stilt  a  tedious  talk,  and  render  it  "  im- 
pressive." 

Where  truth  is  not  so  much  ignored  as  set  in  cool 
defiance ; 

Where  often  on  the  naked  howl  is  placed  a  cheered 
reliance. 


214  POEMS. 

Where  men  of  cultivated  taste  descend  to  black- 
guard diction ; 

"Where  convict  scoundrels  patronize  their  patriots' 
conviction ! 

Words  for  the  thousands !  Simpering  dames  who 
resolutely  tarried, 

Despite  all  calls,  beyond  the  time  in  which  they 
should  have  married ; 

And  men  and  women  out  of  sorts  in  marital  condi- 
tion, 

Who  think  their  private  griefs  confer  a  special  for- 
eign mission, 

Pry  out  their  neighbors'  evil  days,  and  picture  trifles 
glaring ; 

Knock  down  the  stool  of  penitence,  and  set  reform 
despairing ; 

Destroy  the  hopes  of  some  fond  girl,  whose  keenest 
heart  affection 

Was  justly  placed, — tho'  not  assumed  to  be  on 
earth's  perfection. 

And  who  shall  now  for  cotton  bales  or  gold  the 

paeans  sing  ? 
We  hail  the  royal  council  board : — The  man   of 

speech  is  king  1 


WORDS. 

I  speak  not  now  of  babbling  fools, — of  those  who 

throw  away 

Their  own  and  other  people's  time  in  lingual  display. 
I  speak  of  such  as  Henry  was, — of  Webster  and  of 

Clay. 
I  look  to  him,  the  eloquent,  inspired  New  England 

son, 
Whose  words  have  saved  the  home  and  tomb  of 

Father  Washington ! 

Words  foi  the  hundreds !  Blessed  few ;  in  Honor's 

house  devoted : — 

Each  one  determining  his  choice, — admitted  or  pro- 
moted! 
Words  that  the  seeds  of  fire  contain  for  nations  now 

complaining ; 
Words  that  when  victory  is  won,  disclose  the  skill 

maintaining. 
Words  breathing  peace,  and  hope,  and  faith,  through 

earthly  time  enduring, — 
For  every  listening  soul  a  hate  of  morbid  thoughts 

procuring : 
THEIR  speech  we  yearn  to  hear ;  for  truth  gleams 

radiant  in  the  hearing, 
And  in  the  trance  wo  grasp  the  love  that  casts  out 

pride  and  fearing. 


216  POEMS. 

But  here  a  thought  compunctious  stays  ;  and  in  its 
candid  telling, 

I  make  avowal  consonant  with  most  congenial  spell- 
ing. 

Should  I  permit  my  rhyming  muse  to  longer  test 
your  favor, 

I  might  reduce  a  note  of  praise  to  feeble  semi-qua- 
ver. 

So  while  there's  merit  in  the  act,  I'll  make  a  timely 
ending ; — 

That  when  'tis  said,  "  it  was  not  much,"  the  phrase 
may  be  commending. 

Declaring  that  a  favor  found  in  some  such  exclama- 
tion, 

Will  more  than  double  all  the  capes  of  her  best  ex- 
pectation. 

C.A.S. 


EXPERIENCES  AFLOAT,  217 


EXPEEIENCES  AFLOAT. 

VERSES  WRITTEN  ON  BOARD  U.  S.  TRANSPORT,  ILLINOIS, 
OFF  FLORIDA  COAST,  JANUARY,   1863. 

O  GENTLE  Muse  !     O  gracious  Muse  ! 

Bestow  thy  smile  on  me  ; 
While  I  describe  the  wondrous  sights 

I  see  upon  the  sea. 

Old  Ocean  is  a  heavy  swell ; 

A  deep  old  salt,  for  that ; 
You'll  find  your  error,  if  at  first 

You  take  him  for  a  flat. 

No  rower  can  withstand  his  roar  ; 

For  blows  he's  ever  ready  ; 
And  whoso  keeps  his  company, 

Is  apt  to  get  unsteady. 

He  brags  what  flags  wave  o'er  his  waves  ; 

He  boasts  his  ships  are  whalers  ; 
With  gales  regales  us,  just  to  show 

How  he  assails  the  sailors. 

Ah  me !     I'm  six  days  out  from  shore  ; 
A  cleaned-out,  luckless  rover  ; 


218  POEMS. 

Another  six-days  cruise  ahead ; 
And  so>  I'm  half-seas-over. 

I  feel  so  "  cabin'd,  cribbed,  confined," 
I  scarce  can  draw  my  breath  ; 

There's  no  more  comfort  in  my  berth, 
Than  if  it  were  my  death. 

I  go  upon  the  upper  deck 
They  call  "  the  hurricane  ; " 

I  spy  a  seat  hard  by,  I  strive 
With  all  my  might  to  gain. 

The  passage  thither  seems  up  hill ; 

I'm  just  a'going  to  soar  ; 
When  lo  !  there  comes  a  sudden  lurch,- 

I'm  sprawling  on  the  floor ! 

With  stern  resolve  I  seek  the  stern, 
The  ship's  in  mad  carouse  ; 

The  masts  as  to  their  master  nod, 
The  bow  is  making  bows. 

The  smoke-stack  is  exceeding  sick, 

It  vomits  forth  a  cloud  ; 
A  deathly  pallor  seems  to  sit 

On  every  sail  and  shroud. 


EXPERIENCES  AFLOAT.  219 

I  look  down  in  the  engine  room  ; 

The  struggle  there  is  fine  ; 
The  old  ship's  stomach  seems  disturbed 

Almost  as  bad  as  mine. 

An  afterthought  conducts  me  aft, 

How  very  queer  I  feel ! 
The  things  go  dancing  round  me  so, 

My  brain  begins  to  reel. 

Then  comes  the  strange  sensation  on, 

The  like  you  never  knew  ; 
There's  nothing  for  it,  but  to  run,— 

Eugh  !    Eugh ! !    E-e-u-g-h ! ! ! 

O  grim  old  Neptune  !  once  release 

Your  precious  hold  on  me  ; 
And  you  may  play  your  pranks  at  will, 

I'll  never  go  to  see  1 

S.  B.  S. 


220  JPOJEMS. 


CHAKGE  OF  THE  FOETY-NINTH. 

[The  Forty-ninth  Mass.  Vols.  participated  in  the  attempt  to 
carry  by  storm  the  rebel  works  at  Port  Hudson,  La.,  May  27, 
1863,  losing  in  killed  and  wounded  more  than  one-third  of  the 
number  who  went  into  the  action.] 

"  FOKWAKD  now  the  FOETY-NINTH  !  "   the  General's 

mandate  came ; 
"Attention,  Third  Battalion ! "    was  the  Colonel's 

prompt  exclaim  : 
"  Now,  ye  sons  of  Berkshire,  your  crowning  hour 

has  come ; 
Prove  your  fond  fidelity  to  ancestry  and  home  !  " 

Straightway  from  the  undergrowth,  our  gallant  boys 
upsprang ; 

Rapid  and  sonorous  the  familiar  accents  rang  ; 

"  Eight  face  !  Lively  !  Forward  march  !  "  mean- 
while, in  each  eye 

Mark  the  firm  resolve  that  dareth  both  to  do,  and 
die. 

Through  the  tangled  bushes  stealthily  we  tread, 
While  the  shells  are  shrieking  madly  overhead  ; 
Now  we  reach  the  open  ;  and,  across  the  plain, 
See  the  rebel  cannon,  spouting  leaden  rain. 


CHARGE  OF  THE  FORTY-NINTH.  221 

"  On  the  right,  by  file  in  line  !  " — rapidly  we  form  : 
"  Forward  march !     Guide  centre !  " — now  the  fiery 

storm 

With  redoubled  fury  vexes  earth  and  sky, 
As  our  glorious  banner  greets  the  foeman's  eye. 

Gallantly  before  us,  in  the  thrilling  scene, 

March  the  storming  party,  with  musket  and  fascine ; 

See  !  their  steps  they  hasten  !     "  Double  quick  !  " — 

now  then 
Comes  the  tug  of  battle  ;  'quit  yourselves  like  men ! 

Ah,  what  rebel  cunning  had  prepared  the  way ! 
Felled  trees,  logs  and  branches  in  our  pathway  lay  ; 
Still  our  flag  moves  forward  ;  aye, — and  not  alone ; 
For  our  line  of  battle  bravely  holds  its  own  ! 

God  of  mercy  help  us  !     Twice  the  murderous  balls 
Strike  our  hero  Colonel ;  ah,  he  reels  ;  he  falls ! 
Our  Lieutenant-Colonel,  "  Onward !    Onward !  "  cry- 
ing, 
In  an  instant  stricken,  on  the  field  is  lying  ! 

Yet  our  boys,  undaunted,  with  their  might  and  main 
Strive  to  gain  the  ramparts,  but,  alas !  in  vain. 
From  those  fatal  ramparts,  looming  still  afar, 
How  the  foe,  exultant,  hurl  the  bolts  of  war ! 


222  POEMS. 

Through  our  ranks,  where  glittered  bayonet  and 

blade, 

See  what  deadly  havoc  shot  and  shell  have  made ! 
Of    that    proud    battalion, — fresh-lipped  men   and 

brave — 
Scores  now  groan  in  anguish ;  some  have  found  a 

grave ! 

Strive  no  longer  vainly,  now  that  hope  is  past ; 
Let  the  logs  and  pit-falls  be  your  shield  at  last : — 
Down,  then ;   down  for  safety ;  ye  who  still  sur- 
vive ; 
Thank  the  God  of  battles  ye  are  yet  alive  ! 

Softly  soon  the  Day-King  sinks  unto  his  rest, 

And  the  grateful  twilight  deepens  in  the  west. 

Hushed  the  din  of  battle — now,  with  footsteps 
fleet, 

Weary,  saddened  soldiers  make  their  swift  re- 
treat. 

Lo !  what  scenes  confront  them,  as  they  rearward 

tread ; 

Here  a  comrade  wounded  ;  there  a  comrade  dead  ! 
Friends  at  home,  and  kindred  ;  ah  !  what  would  ye 

say, 
Could  you  see  your  petted  FORTY-NINTH  to-day ! 


CHARGE  OF  THE  FORTY-NINTH.  223 

This,  at  least,  in  future,  say  with  honest  pride, — 
"  Berkshire  boys  right  nobly  fought,  and  bled,  and 

died." 

Ever  let  their  actions  be  preserved  in  story, 
And  their  names  encircled  with  a  wreath  of  glory. 

S.B.& 


224  POEMS. 

MNES, 

WRITTEN   FOR  IMPROMPTU  CELEBRATION,  JULY  4,   1863, 

ON  BOARD   STEAMSHIP  CAHAWBA,  AT  SEA,  OFF  COAST 

OF  FLORIDA,  EN  ROUTE  HOME  FROM  NEW  ORLEANS. 

THE  glorious  Fourth  has  come  again  ;  'tis  ours  to 
hail  the  day 

Afar  at  sea,  as  o'er  the  waves  our  good  ship  speeds 
its  way ; 

And  while  our  staunch  "  Cahawba"  floats  in  majes- 
ty along, 

From  grateful  lips  let  us  uplift  our  patriotic  song. 

Well  cherished  day ;  how  bright  the  fires  on  memo- 
ry's altar  burn, 

As,  each  revolving  year,  we  greet  its  annual  re- 
turn! 

Our  country !  with  what  pride  we  trace  her  onward, 
upward  way, 

Since  first  our  grandsires  hailed  the  dawn  of  Inde- 
pendence day ! 

In  conflict  born,  in  faith  sustained,  baptized  in  blood 

and  fire, 
Exposed  in  tender  infancy  to  Britain's  haughty  ire  ; 


LINES.  225 

Still  our  Columbia  lived  and  thrived,  and  came  at 

last  to  be 
An  empire  whose  dominion  stretched  from  sea  across 

to  sea. 

Beneath  her  banner,  science,  art,  and  each  fair  en- 
terprise 

Thrived,  like  exhuberant  fruits,  beneath  the  most 
auspicious  skies ; 

Here  Justice  held  her  scales  aloft,  and  with  benig- 
nant mien, 

Religion,  with  her  mitred  front,  o'erlooked  the  glad- 
some scene. 

Upon  that  banner,  earth's  oppressed  from  lands  afar 
have  gazed, 

As  on  some  sign  of  healing  by  some  modern  Moses 
raised ; 

And  unto  it  with  joyful  hope,  and  with  a  faith  sub- 
lime, 

Have  flocked  a  countless  multitude,  from  every 
shore  and  clime. 

Blest,  O,  how  blest !  beneath  that  flag,  we  lived,  nor 

thought  nor  dreamed 
How  much   of  discord  lay  concealed,  where  all  so 

cheerful  seemed ; 


226  POEMS. 

Dreamed  not  there  breathed  a  soul  so  base, — to 
human  sense  so  closed, 

As  dare  profane  the  citadel  where  all  our  hopes  re- 
posed. 

But  times  have  changed ;  this  very  scene  reminds 
us  that  the  foe 

Hath  risen  in  his  might  to  deal  the  fratricidal  blow. 

The  uniforms  we  wear  to-day,  and  many  a  well- 
earned  scar, 

Tell  that  the  nation  writhes  beneath  the  crimson 
foot  of  war ! 

But,  God  be  praised,  the  hour  hath  shown,  that  when, 

in  years  gone  by, 
Heaven  oped  its  gates  to  greet  our  sires,  true  valor 

did  not  die. 
O,  let  our  faith  and  hope  grow  strong,  as  in  our  ranks 

to-day, 
We  recognize  the  sons  of  sires,  as  brave,  as  true,  as 

they! 

And  now,  as  comes  the  season  round,  when  every 

bosom  glows 
Afresh  with  love  of  country,  and  with  wrath  against 

her  foes ; 


LINES.  227 

O,  let  us  at  a  common  shrine  our  sacred  vows  re- 
cord, 

The  contest  never  to  give  o'er,  nor  sheathe  the  right- 
eous sword, 

Till   once   again,   from    Kennebec   to   distant   Bio 
Grande, 

Our  Flag  shall  spread  its  ample  folds,  unchallenged, 
o'er  the  land ; 

And  everywhere,  the  wide  world  round,  that  glori- 
ous Flag  shall  be 

In  very  deed,  and  very  truth,  the  Ensign  of  the 
free! 

S.  B.  S. 


228  POEMS. 

TO  JULIA,  IN  HEAVEN. 

SISTER  !  we  mourn  with  ceaseless  grief  tliy  going, 

Since  thou  hast  left  us  ; 

"With  each  recurring  day  our  tears  are  flowing, 
More  deep  the  yearnings  in  our  hearts  are  growing, 
For  that  loved  presence,  whereof — God's  bestow- 
ing— 

He  hath  bereft  us. 

Thou  wast,  but  art  not  here  forever  more  ; — 

Such  thy  brief  story  ; — 
Thy  life  was  bright  and  joyous,  but  'tis  o'er  ; 
Thou  hast  gone  seeking  dear  ones  gone  before, 
And  from  the  slopes  of  that  celestial  shore, 

Hast  risen  to  glory. 

Say,  in  those  upper  mansions,  didst  thou  meet 

Sister  and  brothers  ? 

And  in  the  first  bright  throng  that  came  to  greet, 
And  brought  thee  glad  embrace, — swift-winged  and 

fleet,— 
Was  there  not  that  dear  face, — serene  and  sweet — 

Our  sainted  mother's  ? 

Oh  !  I  do  seem  to  see  new  joy  in  Heaven, 
As  she  who  bore  thee 


TO  JULIA  IN  HEAVEN.  229 

Faw  ihj  pure  soul  from  earth's  frail  vesture  riven, 
Safe  at  the  goal  towards  which  it  well  had  striven, 
And,  joyous  in  this  child-companion  given, 
Bent  smiling  o'er  thee  ; 

And  to  the  Father,  on  His  white  throne  seated, 

And  to  the  Son, 

And  to  the  Spirit — God  Triune — repeated 
Glad  hyinns  of  praises,  nor  in  vain  entreated 
Welcome  to  thee,  O  rapturously  greeted, 

Thy  Life-work  done  ! 

There,  as  eternal  cycles  roll  away, 

Thou  art  at  rest. 

Around,  the  everlasting  sunbeams  play  ; 
Through  golden  streets,  through  sweet  fields,  thou 

si  i  alt  stray, 

And  in  yon  Heaven  shalt  spend  an  endless  day 
Among  the  bl< 

Yet  e'en  from  Heaven's  ecstatic  joys,  I  know 

Thou  wouldst  look  down, 
And  gaze  in  fondness  upon  friends  below, 
And  fain  wouldst  woo  them  from  this  world  of  woe, 
And  higher  joys  portray,  and  fain  wouldst  show 
The  victor's  crown. 


230  POEMS. 

But,  oh,  how  swift  the  years  will  wing  their  flight 

In  thy  esteem ! 

Our  life  is  but  a  day — soon  past — then  night 
Comes,  whispering  of  the  morn,  or  else  with  blight ; 
And  all — the  old,  the  beautiful,  the  bright — 

Pass  like  a  dream  ! 

And,  shortly,  all  the  friends  and  kindred  known 

On  earth  to  thee, 
Must  cross  the  stream  which  thou  hast  crossed, 

alone, 

Must  stand  in  judgment  at  God's  awful  throne, 
And,  in  its  bliss,  or  terrors,  must  be  shown 

Eternity ! 

Spirit  departed  unto  realms  above, 

I  pray,  look  hither ; 

Watch  o'er  and  guard  me  with  that  sister's  love, 
Which  erst  I  know  thy  tender  heart  did  move  ; 
From  God  and  Heaven  permit  me  not  to  rove  ; 

But  lead  me  thither ! 

And,  haply,  He  who  lives  to  intercede 

At  God's  right  hand, 

To  my  poor  prayers  may  graciously  give  heed ; 
O'er  sins  like  mine,  His  wounds  afresh  may  bleed, 
And  I  may  gain,  obedient  to  His  lead, 

The  promised  land. 


TO  JULIA  IN  HEAVEN.  231 

Yet  not  to  gain  it,  when  I  know  what  guest 

Inhabits  there ; — 

"What  greater  torment  for  the  human  breast, 
What  greater  woe  wherewith  to  be  oppressed, 
What  greater  grief,  or  sorrow,  or  unrest, 

Than  such  despair ! 

Dear  sister  !  Earth  is  less  since  thou  hast  died, 

And  Heaven  is  more. 

From  Heaven  look  down  and  be  my  constant  guide. 
So  may  I  'scape  the  snares  of  sin  and  pride, 
And  reach  at  last,  beyond  Death's  gloomy  tide, 

The  shining  shore. 

There,  as  the  tireless  centuries  come  and  go, 

No  fate  shall  sever  ; — 
Supernal  joys  shall  have  perpetual  flow, 
Loved  ones  of  old  shall  throng  with  hearts  aglow, 
And  bid  us  taste  of  pleasures,  we  shall  know 

Are  ours  forever. 

S.  B.  S. 


232  POEMS. 

MUSINGS  IN  A  CEMETEKY 

i. 

I  STOOD  within  the  consecrated  ground, 
Where  hundreds  sleep  th'  inevitable  sleep ; 
In  thoughtful  mood  I  strolled  at  leisure,  round 
The  sacred  place  where  mourners  come  to  weep  ; 
"Where  sculptur'd  stones  their  constant  vigils  keep  ; 
Where  solemn  trees  their  drooping  branches  wave 
O'er  prostrate  forms,  consigned  to  slumber  deep ; — 
The  old,  the  young,  the  good,  the  base,  the  brave, 
All  to  one  common  level  come  at  last — the  grave  ! 

n. 

How  populous  grown,  thou  city  of  the  dead ! 
Within  the  period  of  a  few  brief  years. 
How  short  the  time  since  first  a  lifeless  head 
Was  here  laid  low  with  many  sighs  and  tears  ! 
Yet,  day  by  day,  upon  our  careless  ears 
Fall  sad  the  tones  of  the  funereal  bell, 
As,  here  and  there,  some  fated  mortal  hears, 
Sounding  for  him,  th'  inexorable  knell — 
"  Hence  to  the  regions  where  departed  spirits  dwell !" 

m. 

So,  one  by  one,  the  marble  columns  rise, 
And  for  its  tenant  yawns  another  tomb, 


IX  A  CEMETERY.  233 

And  some  new  shaft  points  upward  to  the  skies, 
And  new-wreathed  flowers  exhale  their  sweet  per- 
fume— 

As  fain  to  rob  some  grave  of  half  its  gloom. 
Here  speaks  a  stone  of  aged  worth  passed  away ; 
There,  of  a  youth  cut  down  in  early  bloom  ; 
There,  of  a  child  called  from  its  infant  play- 
Blest  one  !  so  soon  let  in  to  realms  of  endless  day  ! 

rv. 

'Tis  a  fine  impulse — worthy  of  a  race, — 
The  foremost,  doubtless,  of  the  sons  of  earth, — 
The  habitations  of  the  dead  to  grace 
With  fitting  tributes  to  departed  worth. 
How  meet  that  one  who  had  a  common  birth 
With  me  ;  whose  youth  ran  parallel  with  mine — 
Who  sat  beside  the  same  paternal  hearth — 
When  called  at  last  his  being  to  resign, 
Should  find  a  grave  o'er  which  these  hands  should 
place  a  shrine ! 

V. 

Yes,  honored  be  the  instinct  which  incites 
To  decoration  of  the  sacred  spot 
Where  the  dead  rest,  with  something  which  in- 
vites,— 


234  POEMS. 

Which  seems  to  say,  "  Thou  art  not  clean  forgot ; 
Though  gone  from  earth,  thy  name  hath  perished 

not; 

But  o'er  thy  ashes,  the  memorial  stone 
Some  place  to  thee  in  memory  shall  allot — 
Record  a  life  in  which  some  virtues  shone 
Too  bright  to  pass  away  unchronjcled — unknown." 

VI. 

It  makes  the  living  look  with  lessened  dread 
On  death,  and  scenes  which  its  approach  attend, 
To  see  attractions  multiplied  and  spread 
Around  each  tomb  by  some  surviving  friend. 
'Tis  sweet  to  feel  that,  when  one's  life  shall  end, 
He  shall  not  sleep  within  a  nameless  grave, 
But  o'er  him  some  inscription  shall  defend 
Awhile  his  record  'gainst  the  Lethean  wave, — 
Prolong  his  influence,  and  his  good  example  save. 

vn. 

And  there's  incentive  in  the  pleasing  thought, 

That  whatsoever  hath  been  grandly  done, 

In  panegyric  letters  may  be  wrought 

Upon  the  shaft,  or  monumental  stone, 

To  tell  the  pensive  passer-by  of  one 

Who,  in  some  noble  sphere,  held  high  command  ; 


MUSINGS  IN  A  CEMETERY.  235 

Who,  in  mankind's  affection,  held  a  throne  ; — 
Endowed  with  gifts  of  head,  and  heart,  and  hand ; — 
Whose  life  was  one  long  benediction  o'er  the  land. 

vm. 

But  monuments  are  feeble  bulwarks  all 
Against  the  havoc  and  the  waste  of  time  ; 
They  serve  a  purpose,  but  decay  and  fall, 
Ere  they  who  built  scarce  reach  th'  eternal  clime. 
Some  living  truth  disclosed — some  deed  sublime — 
These  be  the  monuments  that  shall  endure. 
Great  Caesar's  valor, — greater  Homer's  rhyme 
Give  each  a  place  in  history  secure, — 
Beneath  Fame's  temple-dome,  a  habitation  sure. 


The  prophet,  Moses,  towards  the  mountain  height, 
At  God's  commandment,  lifted  up  his  face  ; 
So  passed  forever  out  from  human  sight, 
And  no  man  knoweth  of  his  burial-place. 
Yet  not  till  men  have  lost  the  power  to  trace 
In  holy  writ,  the  record  blazoned  there, 
Shall  he, — the  leader  of  a  chosen  race, — 
The  homage  of  the  ages  fail  to  share, 
Or  crowns  of  everlasting  splendor  cease  to  wear. 


236  POEMS. 

x. 

Of  good  and  bad  taste,  it  may  well  be  said, 
Our  cemeteries  make  a  vast  display. 
Like  living  cities,  cities  of  the  dead 
What  sort  of  folk  inhabit  there,  betray. 
The  architecture  of  the  present  day, — 
The  ancient  models  setting  all  at  nought — 
In  various  style — grave,  cumbrous,  graceful,  gay — 
Some  fair,  some  execrable  shapes  hath  wrought — 
The  chance  embodiment  of  each  contriver's  thought. 

XI. 

Yet  'twere  a  simple  thing  to  keep  within 
The  bounds  of  proper  taste  and  cultured  sense  ; 
Build  some  substantial  structure  o'er  thy  kin, — 
Against  time's  ravages,  the  best  defence, — 
And  shun,  of  all  things,  vulgar,  base  pretense. 
Did  he  die  rich  ?  be  modest,  ne'ertheless, 
Nor  strain  to  typify  his  opulence 
By  something  that  shall  only  make  men  guess 
What  share  it  cost  of  all  that  Dives  did  possess. 

XII. 

I  can  perceive  a  fitness  when  men  build 
Their  costly  tributes  to  great  Washington  ; 
Or,  lavish  of  expense,  adorn  and  gild 


MUSINGS  IX  A  CEMETERY.  237 

Their  proud  memorials  to  each  gifted  one, — 
Soldier  or  sage,  or  patriot,  whose  life  done, 
Seems  to  become  the  property  of  all 
Within  whose  midst  his  grand  career  was  run  ; 
Who,  o'er  his  dust,  or  in  the  classic  hall, 
Or  in  the  market-place,  his  sculptur'd  form  install. 

xm. 

But  when  old  Jones,  whoso  riches  were  amassed 
In  manufactures,  or  in  merchandise  ; 
In  prosperous  venture,  or  some  signal  cast 
Of  fortune,  pays  stern  Nature's  debt,  and  dies, 
And  wills  that  o'er  his  ashes  there  shall  rise 
The  most  imposing  of  memorial  stones, — 
His  name,  forsooth,  to  thus  immortalize  ; 
I  really  can  but  think  that  Mr.  Jones 
Is  paying  overdue  respect  unto  his  bones. 

xrv. 

And  mark  the  folly  of  the  vast  outlay  ! 
This  man  would  fain  perpetuate  his  name  ; 
But,  ah !  how  soon  his  fabric  will  decay, 
And  time  will  mock  his  weak,  pretentious  claim. 
Wealth  can  find  better  shifts  to  purchase  fame. 
Jones  spent  a  fortune  ;  he  might  have  endowed 
A  charity  or  college  with  the  same, 


238  POEMS. 

And  bought  applause  from  no  ignoble  crowd, — 
Conceived  a  generous  act,  and  won  distinction  proud. 

xv. 

Rich  Amos  Lawrence ; — honored  be  his  name  !— 
A  poor  boy  once, — became  a  millionaire  ; 
Then,  thoughtful  founder  of  a  fragrant  fame, 
On  charities  bestowed  a  zealous  care. 
The  tomb  that  shrines  him  is  a  plain  affair, 
And  yet  his  name  on  many  a  structure  shines, 
Goes  linked  with  benefactions  here  and  there, 
And,  until  Time  his  sovereignty  resigns, 
On  Fame's  bright  scroll  shall  be  inscribed  in  living 
lines. 

XVI. 

When  I  must  answer  to  the  final  call, 

I'd  have  no  costly  pile  above  my  head  ; 

But  I  would  be  remembered,  if  at  all, 

For  something  nobly  done,  or  fitly  said. 

But,  should  I  join  the  multitudinous  dead, 

Who  leave  no  footprints  on  Time's  treacherous 

sands, 

Enough  for  me,  to  have  my  children  shed 
Sometimes  a  tear  beside  the  spot  where  stands 
The  simple  stone  placed  o'er  my  dust  by  friendly 
hands. 


MUSINGS  IN  A  CEMETERY.  239 

xvn. 

While  thus  I  mused,  lo  !  the  descending  sun 
Began  to  cast  his  shadows,  dark  and  long ; 
And  so,  with  one  accord,  were  quickly  done 
The  day,  my  stroll,  my  reverie,  and  my  song.     . 
To  the  near  city  I  made  haste  along, 
Through  avenues  proud,  and  bustling  thorough- 
fares, 

And  once  more  mingling  with  the  busy  throng, 
Ah,  me !  how  soon  life's  round  of  paltry  cares, 
Re-ent'ring  all  my  thoughts,  possessed    me  una- 
wares. 

S.  B.  S. 


240  POEMS. 

POEM, 

DELIVERED  AT   GREAT  HARRINGTON,   JULY  4TH,   1865, 
AND   ON  SAME  DAY  IN  PITTSFIELD. 

No  MORE  to  chronicle  fraternal  wars ; 
No  longer  hand-maid  of  the  furious  Mars  ; 
No  more  to  beckon  to  a  soldier's  grave 
The  youthful  warrior, — the  heroic  brave  ; 
No  more  with  classic  tread  and  ireful  mien, 
To  lend  thy  presence  to  some  battle,  scene  ; — 
Goddess  of  song  !  with  gladder  notes  attend  ; 
Here  in  our  midst,  with  radiant  brow  descend  ; 
On  happier  themes,  O  let  thy  zeal  increase — 
The  HOUR  OF  TRIUMPH,  and  the  DAWN  OF  PEACE  ! 

Dark  was  the  cloud,  which,  gathering  thick  and  fast, 

For  many  years  the  Nation's  sky  o'ercast ; 

And  fierce  the  storm,  whose  pent-up  wrath  broke 

forth 

O'er  desperate  South  and  o'er  determined  North, 
When  the  defiant  flag  was  first  unfurled, 
And  civil  war's  hot  thunderbolts  were  hurled, 
Waking  the  echoes  of  the  startled  world. 

Sad  was  the  day,  and  evil  was  the  hour, 

When  Reason  left  her  throne  and  lost  her  power  ; 


POEM.  241 

When  first  the  impious  madman  dared  begin 
The  strife  in  which  he  could  not  hope  to  win  ; 
To  fire  the  nation's  temple  dared  presume,— 
"Whose  flames,  once  lighted,  must  himself  consume  ; 
Too  glad  this  common  heritage  to  mar 
"\Yith  all  the  havoc  of  tremendous  war, 
And  drown  the  sacred  ties  of  brotherhood 
In  swollen  rivers  of  fraternal  blood  ! 

It  was  to  be  ;  the  God  who  rules  above,— 
Alike  the  God  of  justice,  as  of  love, — 
Doubt  not,  was  witness  with  omniscient  eye, 
Of  all  the  scene  ;  and  from  His  throne  on  high, 
Beheld  what  man  saw  not,  nor  yet  foresees, — 
Results,  far-reaching  through  the  centuries  ! 
Nay,  e'en  to  us,  of  finite,  feeble  sense, 
Comes  now  and  then  a  glimpse  of  recompense, 
And  all  the  sacrifice  of  toil  and  blood 
Seems  cheap  in  prospect  of  the  coming  good. 
Men  die,  but  nations  live,  whose  men  are  great, 
Arid  fit  to  found  and  regulate  a  state  ; 
And  nations  are  the  mighty  instruments, 
Beneath  the  wondrous  rule  of  Providence, 
Wherewith  to  hasten  that  consummate  end, 
To  which  all  time's  events  and  changes  tend ; 
And  whoso  with  a  pious  trust  essays 
To  give  his  nation  power  and  length  of  days ; 


242  POEMS. 

To  make  her  nobler,  and  of  higher  worth, 
Among  the  thrones  and  kingdoms  of  the  earth, 
Fulfills  a  mission  ;  and  may  lay  him  down 
Where  death  o'ertakes  him ;  he  hath  won  a  crown. 
And  thou,  whose  eye  to-day  can  only  see 
That  far-off  grave  'neath  the  magnolia  tree, — 
O  cease  thy  grief  ;  for  though  no  more  the  boy 
Comes  back  to  mingle  in  these  scenes  of  joy, 
Nor  joins  his  comrades,— proudly  welcomed  now, 
The  laural  wreath  encircling  every  brow, — 
Yet,  one  day,  when  God's  Bugle  in  mid-air 
Shall  sound  "  Attention  !  "  he  too  shall  be  there  ; 
At  that  last  roll-call,  "  ADSUM  ! "  shaU  reply, 
And  join  the  Grand  Encampment  in  the  sky  ! 
His  work  was  done ;  he  had  not  reached  life's  noon ; 
He  died  too  soon,  you  think,  yet  not  too  soon. 
A  hero,  died,  who  might  have  lived  instead, 
To  die,  a  riddance,  in  an  old  man's  bed. 
Peace  to  your  ashes,  brave,  departed  ones  ! 
Sleep  well ;  though  now  the  sun  may  bleach  your  bones 
By  Mississippi's  stream,  or  down  beside 
Where  the  James  rolls  his  deep,  historic  tide, 
Our  hearts  go  out  and  up  to  you  to-day, 
And  bid  you  God-speed  on  your  heavenward  way  ; 
And  fresh  and  green  your  memories  we  shall  keep, 
Till  ours  to  sleep  the  same  mysterious  sleep ! 


POEM.  243 

Thank  God  for  our  glorious,  gallant  dead ! 

On  history's  page  we  have  often  read 

Of  the  wondrous  deeds  of  those, 

Who  at  famed  Thermopylae  fought  and  fell, 

And  at  Marathon  struggled  long  and  well, — 

Whose  story  the  grand  old  writers  tell, 

In  immortal  verse  and  prose. 

And  we  thought  that  the  age  was  forever  past, 
When  spirits  so  noble  could  still  bo  cast 

In  a  like  heroic  mould  ; 
And  we  did  not  dream  that  here  and  there, 
Each  in  his  little  round  of  care, 
Breathing  with  us  the  common  air, 
Were  youths,  whose  courage  to  do  and  dare, 

Occasion  might  unfold. 

We  have  read  in  old  books,  of  classic  ground, 
And  have  longed  to  visit  and  linger  round — 

As  pilgrims  round  a  shrine — 
Each  famous  spot,  where,  in  days  gone  by, 
Proud  Greek  met  Greek  with  a  dauntless  eye, 
In  haughty  contempt  of  death,  to  die, 

With  an  impulse  that  seemed  divine. 

But  no  longer  we  need  to  gaze  afar, 
To  where  the  grim-visaged  god  of  war 

Hath  stalked  with  ponderous  tread. 


244  POEMS. 

On  the  hither  side  of  the  ocean  foam, 
Where  the  young  Columbia  hath  her  home, 
Sacred  indeed  hath  the  soil  become, 

With  the  graves  of  the  deathless  dead ! 

Let  the  Old  World  now  be  the  New  World's  guest, 
As  the  long  line  moves  from  East  to  West, 

In  procession  vast  and  grand 
Of  pilgrims  from  far  beyond  the  sea, 
In  this  favored  home  of  the  brave  and  free, 
By  the  graves  of  martyrs  for  Liberty, 

In  reverent  awe  to  stand  ! 

Inscribed  on  a  new-built  Arch  of  Fame, 
Shall  stand  forever  each  honored  name 

Of  that  unselfish  throng  ; 
And  the  unborn  millions  shall  be  taught, 
What  deeds  sublime  these  heroes  wrought, 
And  how  with  patriot  zeal  they  fought, 

And  conquered  a  giant  wrong. 

And  of  that  proud  Arch,  the  white  keystone 
Shall  bear  the  shining  name  of  one, 

Whose  death  was  the  august  crown 
Of  the  sacrifices  a  nation  gave, 
In  a  perilous  hour,  its  life  to  save  ; — 
Sleep  well,  great  Chief,  in  thy  hallowed  grave, 

On  the  heights  of  the  world's  renown ! 


POEM.  245 

Sleep  well,  O,  martyred  President ! 

The  dastard  blow  that  struck  thee  dead, 

New  lustre  on  thy  record  shed, 
And  wrought  thee  good,  where  ill  was  meant. 

Thou  hadst  the  plenitude  of  fame, 

And  heart  of  friend  and  whilom  foe  ; 
There  seemed  no  higher  boon  below, 

Or  short  of  Heaven,  for  thee  to  claim. 

So  all-symmetric  thy  career, 

To  live,  was  but  to  jeopardize ; 

For  oft  would  busy  envy  rise, 
And  seek  excuse  to  carp  and  sneer. 

So,  like  a  fully  ripened  sheaf, 

The  reaper,  Death,  at  God's  command, 
Did  cut  thee  down  with  furtive  hand, 

And  all  the  world  was  plunged  in  grief. 

O,  how  the  nation  wept  for  thee  ! 
While  fast  in  sympathetic  flow 
Fell  stranger  tears,  and  tones  of  woe 

Came  wafted  o'er  the  sobbing  sea. 

With  calmer  eyes  we  now  discern, 

In  this  event,  the  hand  of  God. 

We  place  thy  ashes  'neath  the  sod, 
And  shrine  thy  deeds  in  history's  urn. 


246  POEMS. 

Full  at  the  zenith  stood  thy  sun, 
Betokening  grateful  afternoon ; 
Yet  none  shall  deem  inopportune 

That  swift  eclipse  ;  thy  work  was  done  ! 


Now  let  us  turn  the  picture  round,  and  view  the 
brighter  side, 

And  gather  as  we  gaze,  some  food  for  patriotic  pride. 

The  crisis  o'er,  our  country  lives ; — in  vigor  yet  sur- 
vives, 

A  thousand-fold  more  dear  for  all  those  consecrated 
lives. 

Four  years — four  pregnant  years  have  passed,  since 

war  was  first  begun  ; — 
The  mightiest  war  that  ever  yet  was  waged  beneath 

the  sun ; — 
And  every  Independence  Day,  as  year  succeeded 

year, 
Still  found  within  our  anxious  hearts  alternate  hope 

and  fear. 

But,  God  be  praised,  the   scene  is   changed ;  the 

clouds  have  rolled  away  ; 
'Tis  ours  to  hail  the  dawning  of  a  more  auspicious 

day; 


POEM.  247 

The  atmosphere  is  purer  far, — the  nation  smiles 

again, 
And  Peace  o'er  all  the  fair  expanse  resumes  her  glad 

domain. 

Our   "  erring  sisters "   have   come  back, — at    least 

they  say  they're  coming  ; 
The  busy  wheels  of  enterprise   on   every  side  are 

humming ; 
The  boys  come  home  to  breathe  the  northern  air  so 

fresh  and  balmy, 
And  each  one  struts,  and  brags  about — "  When  I 

was  in  the  army !  " 

The  contrabands  are  freemen  all ;  it  seems  so  strange 

and  new, 
The  situation  puzzles  them  ;  they  don't  know  what 

to  do  : 
But  let  them  all  lay  down  to-day  the  shovel  and  the 

hoc, 

And  shout  and  sing,  "  De  kingdom's  come,  an'  de 
year  ob  Jubilo ! " 

The  rebel  States  come  back  so  fast,  for  re-admission 
asking, 

The  powers  of  the  President  they're  greatly  over- 
tasking ; 


248  POEMS. 

But  let  each  wandering  star  once  more  upon  our 

banner  shine : 
To  err  is  human,  it  is  said ; — but  to  forgive,  divine. 

But   as  for  "Jeff,"  the  head  and  front  of  all  the 

wicked  plan, 

I'll  e'en  express  my  sentiments  as  mildly  as  I  can. 
I  know  you'll  think  me  too  severe  ;  I  know  I  shall 

be  blamed ; 
And  yet    I  vow  and  do  declare — SJie  ought  to  be 

ashamed  ! 

And  there's  our  old  friend,  Johnny  Bull ;  my  recol- 
lection's dim, 

Or  else  the  Yankee  nation  owes  a  trifling  debt  to  him. 

The  poor  old  fellow  has  the  blues,  and  bitterly  des- 
ponds, 

And  gets  no  interest,  now-a-days,  on  those  Confed- 
erate bonds ! 

And  there's  the  Third  Napoleon,  and  the  Sovereign 

Castilian ; 
And  there's  the  new-fledged  Emperor,  the  Archduke 

Maximilian  j 
Some  doctrine  we'll  expound  to  them — they  call  it 

" the  Monroe/- 
Unless they  very  shortly  take  French  leave  of  Mexico! 


POEM.  249 

We  have  some  little  tubs  afloat,  and  now  and  then 

a  gun, 
And  boys  enough,  both  north  and  south,  who'd  like 

to  see  the  fun  ; 
And  Montezuma's  halls,  methinks,  will  witness  quite 

a  scare, 
When  cook-stoves  from  Connecticut  come  hissing 

through  the  air ! 

I  tell  you  what :  I  do  believe  this  mighty  Yankee 
nation, 

When  once  it  gets  its  "dander"  up,  can  whip  the 
whole  creation; 

And  since  our  family  quarrel's  done,  and  things  are 
quiet  now, 

If  people  don't  behave  themselves,  there'll  be  a  pre- 
cious row ! 

But  I  must  stop  my  Pegasus,  before  he  does  his 

worst ; — 
He  gets  so  full  of  patriotism,  I  fear  the  nag  will 

burst ; — 
He  wants  to  give  a  toast  or  two,  and  then  his  story's 

told: 
It's  time  to  close  ;  for  I  suspect  the  dinner's  getting 

cold. 


250  POEMS. 

Then  here's  to  Grant,  and  Sheridan,  and  Farragut, 

and  Sherman  ; 
The  Yankee  boys,  the  Irish  boys,  the  steady,  fear- 

less German  ; 

And  all  the  gallant  officers,  and  all  the  noble  men, 
Who  fought  the  fight  ;  what  land  shall  look  upon 

their  like  again  ! 

Long  life,  and  health,  and  every  good,  be  theirs  in 

bounteous  store, 
Till  they  shall  join  their  comrades  upon  Jordan's 

farther  shore  ; 
And  when  the  soil  of  centuries  upon  their  graves  is 

pressed, 
Still  may  the  grateful  generations  rise  to  call  them 

blest  ! 

And  now,  to  glorious  UNCLE  SAM,  let's  give  a  rous- 

ing cheer  ! 
The  dear  old  Patriarch  has  reached  almost  his  nine- 

tieth year. 
Let  every  heart  and  tongue  unite  to  give  the  toast 


And  join  each  voice  with  mine  :  Hip  !  hip  !  Hurra  ! 

Hurra  !  !  Hurra  !  !  ! 

S.  B.  S. 


ITT 
UXES.  251 

LINES, 

READ  ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  HON.  AND  MRS.  WM.  D.  BISHOP'S 
CRYSTAL  WEDDING,  BRIDGEPORT,  CT.,  OCT.  20,  1865. 

["Our  tokens  of  compliment  and  love  are  for  the  most  part 
barbarous.  The  only  gift  is  a  portion  of  thyself.  Thou  must 
bleed  for  me.  Therefore  the  poet  brings  his  poem ;  the  shep- 
herd, his  lamb  ;  the  miner,  a  gem  ;  the  sailor,  coral  and  pearls  ; 
the  painter,  his  picture  ;  the  girl,  a  handkerchief  of  her  own  sew- 
ing."— Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.} 

O  GENTLE  muse !  who  deignest  oft  thy  presence  to 
bestow, 

Where  Hymen  celebrates  his  rites,  and  Cupid  bends 
his  bow ; 

Descend  and  linger  here  awhile,  thy  grateful  in- 
fluence shedding, 

To  give  this  glad  occasion  voice,  and  grace  our  Crys- 
tal Wedding. 

No  crystal  offering  I  might  bring,  could  hold  the 
least  compare 

With  those  we  witness  here  displayed,  so  tasteful 
and  so  rare ; 

Be  mine,  instead,  to  shape  the  thought  which  ani- 
mates the  throng, 

And  bring  it  hither,  wrought  in  verse,  and  crystalized 
in  song. 


252  POEMS. 

The  Crystal  Wedding !  fitting  theme  for  poet's  glad- 
some rhyme  ; 

Bright  spot  upon  the  borders  of  the  rapid  stream  of 
time. 

What  memories  and  what  hopes  surround  this  point 
upon  life's  way, 

Betwixt  the  veiled  To-morrow,  and  the  beauteous 
Yesterday ! 

'Twas  Hope  that  crowned  the  nuptial  hour,  when 

first  the  wedded  pair 
Set  forth  together,  hand  in  hand,  the  vast  Untried 

to  share ; 
Now  Memory  too  attends  the  feast,  with  gladness  in 

her  mien, 
And  lends  new  interest  to  the  time,  new  beauty  to 

the  scene. 

'Twas  fifteen  years  ago  to-night,  the  mystic  knot 

was  tied, 
Which  bound  in  holy  wedlock,  the  bridegroom  and 

his  bride ; 
And  some  were  there,  who  now  are  here,  and  some 

in  death  lie  low, 
Who  bade  the  happy  pair  Godspeed,  but  fifteen 

years  ago ! 


LINES.  253 

And  some  are  here  who  were  not  there, — for  so  the 

world  wags  on ; 
New  friendships,  and  new  ties  are  forming  ever  and 

anon ; 
And  some  new  comers  I  perceive,  of  tender  ages 

rather, — 
The  eldest  is'nt  yet  fifteen  ; — they  all  look  like  their 

father ! 

The  bride  and  groom  betray  no  serious  ravages  of 

time ; 
Of  manhood,  and  of  womanhood,  they  scarcely  reach 

the  prime  ; 
And  yet  for  them  so  prosperously  life's  fickle  stream 

hath  run, 
The  prizes  most  can  never  win,  already  they  have  won. 

For  he,  in  legislative  halls,  hath  mingled  with  the 

great, 

And  aided  to  administer  the  grand  affairs  of  State, 
And  much  goods  hath  laid  up  in  store  since  wedded 

life  began, 
And  is  a  Kailroad  President,  and  was — an  Alderman  ! 

And  she  hath  lent  the  magic  charm  of  beauty  and  of 

grace 
To  many  a  proud  assemblage,  and  many  an  honored 

place, 


254  POEMS. 

And  been  a  ready  helpmeet  unto  him  in  life's  en- 
deavor, 

And  greets  us  now,  a  courtly  dame,  and  handsomer 
than  ever ! 

Fifteen  years  wedded  ;  no  divorce  ;  no  "  spats  ;  "  no 

shattered  nerves ; 
No  jars — except  that  harmless  kind,  for  pickles  and 

preserves  ; — 
Bright  children  ;  very  pleasant  home,  and  well-to-do 

in  life ; — 
'Tis  well ;  I  yield  assent,  and  do  pronounce  them 

man  and  wife. 

(I  tell  you  in  parenthesis,  this  ceremony's  bind- 
ing. 

I  know  full  well  that  latterly,  there  has  been  much 
fault-finding, 

Because  ambitious  laymen  played  the  deuce  in  one 
or  two  setts, 

But  I  was  made  a  Justice,  when  I  lived  in  Massa- 
chusetts.) 

Now  here's  a  health,  twice-wedded  pair,  to  you  and 

yours  we  proffer ; 
Life's  bounties   may  you  richly  share,  in  basket, 

store  and  coffer ; 


LINES.  255 

No  crystal  gift  that  sparkles  here,  but  silently  re- 
hearses 

The  hearty  benediction  I  would  fain  repeat  in 
verses. 

And  when  the  years — a  decade  more — have  swiftly 

passed  away, 
And  time  perchance  hath  silvered  o'er  your  brows 

T\  ith  lines  of  gray  ; 
Though  weeping  friends  o'er  many  a  tomb,  tears 

meantime  shall  be  shedding, 
May  it  be  yours,  as  bride  and  groom,  to  keep  your 

silver  wedding ! 

Nay — rarer  chance  to  mortal  lot— still  let  the  wish 

be  spoken, 
May  the  silver  cord  be  loosed  not,  nor  the  golden 

bowl  be  broken, 
Ere   at  life's  even  you  shall    stand,   inspired    by 

memories  olden, 
To  join  each  faithful  hand  with  hand,  in  nuptials 

that  are  golden ! 

And  finally,  we  wish  you  all  the  joys  vouchsafed  to 

mortals ; 
May  the  shades  of  life   unfrequent  fall   on   these 

domestic  portals ; 


256  POEMS. 

May  every  tongue  your  deeds  extol ;   may  friends 

prove  true  and  stable, 
And  Heaven  grant  you  numerous   olive-branches 

round  your  table ! 

And  when  the  promised  Bridegroom  comes,  O  may 

we  all  behold 
The  crystal  stream,  the  silver  thrones,  the  city  of 

pure  gold ; 
And  join  that  august,  shining  throng,  before  the 

Great  I  AM, 

To  celebrate  eternally  the  Marriage  of  the  Lamb  ! 

S.  B.  S. 


POEM.  257 


POEM, 

DELIVERED    AT    THE    RE-UNION    OF    THE    FORTY-NINTH 
REGIMENT,   MASSACHUSETTS  VOLUNTEERS,  AT   PITTS- 
FIELD,  MASS.,  MAY  21,   1867. 

How  strange  a  thing  is  memory :  as  I  gaze 
This  night  on  comrades  of  those  fruitful  days, 
When  armed  cohorts  thronged  on  every  hand, 
And  war's  alarms  and  thunders  shook  the  land  ; 
I  am  not  here, — but  backward,  far  away, 
My  inmost  thoughts  and  recollections  stray, 
And  bygone  scenes  are  passing  in  review, 
Which,  haply,  I  may  reproduce  to  you. 

And  first,  Camp  Briggs*  attracts  my  gaze ;  the  spot 

whereto  we  rallied, 
When  forth  from  peaceful  hearths  and  homes,  as  raw 

recruits  we  sallied ; 
When,  having  stumped  the  county  o'er,  for  men  to 

;iid  the  nation, 
We  undertook  the  rudiments  of  martial  education. 


*  Camp  Briggs,  Pittefleld,  so  named  in  honor  of  Brigadier- 
General  H.  S.  Briggs. 


258  POEMS. 

And  first,  there  came  the  "  Allen  Guard,"*  with  Cap- 
tain Israel  Weller, — 

A  whilom  three-months  sergeant,  and  a  funny,  whole- 
souled/e&r  / 

With  Clark  and  Francis  for  his  aids,  he  fired  the 
opening  gun, 

And  straightway  boldly  issued  "  General  Order 
Number  One ! " 

Then  Garlick,  Plunkett,  Sumner,  Train  and  Morey 

followed  fast ; 
Then  Parker,  Shannon,  Bennie ;  and  then  Weston 

came  the  last ; 
And  so,  ten  goodly  companies  encamped  upon  the 

green, 
While  tents  and  shanties  multiplied,  enlivening  all 

the  scene. 

O  then  'twas  drum-beat,  morn  and  night,  and  tramp 

tramp,  all  the  day, 
And  not  a  little  arduous  toil,  and  very  little  play  ; 


*  The  "Allen  Guard,"  a  militia  company  in  Pittsfield,  named 
after  Hon.  Thomas  Allen,  who  had  contributed  largely  to  its 
organization  and  support,  was  the  first  company  of  the  Forty- 
ninth  to  go  into  camp.  It  established  itself  at  Camp  Briggs  on 
Sunday,  September  7,  1862,  which  was  the  day  when  the  Thirty- 
seventh  Regiment  left  it  for  the  seat  of  war. 


POEM.  259 

The  boys  complained  of  homesickness  ; — the  disci- 
pline seemed  hard ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  at  night,  the  rascals  ran  the 
guard. 

What  stunning  dress-parades  we  had,  at  every  close 

of  clay, 
When  all  the  Pittsfield  gentry  came  to  witness  the 

display  ; 

When  Captain  Weller  put  us  through  the  exercises  fine, 
And  "  K.  K.  Noble,  Adjutant,"  went  strutting  down 

the  line ! 

And  then,  what  everlasting  drills,  and  marches  up 

and  down, 

Eliciting  the  compliments  of  all  the  belles  in  town ; 
And  as  we  marched  in  column  on,  about  a  score 

abreast, 
Good  Lord  !  how  Plunkett's  towering  form  loomed 

up  above  the  rest !  * 

Pete  Springstcenf  served  the  rations  round,  accord- 
ing to  our  means. 

*  The  Forty-ninth  was  known  wherever  it  went  as  "the  regi- 
ment with  the  tall  major."  Major  Plunkett  was  six  feet  six  in 
his  uniform. 

f  Peter  Springsteen,  whilom  landlord  of  the  United  States 
Hotel,  Pittsfield,  furnished  rations  for  officers  and  men,  when  the 
camp  was  first  established,  and  accompanied  the  regiment  South 
as  its  sutler. 


260  POEMS. 

The  beefsteak  was  exceeding  good,  and  eke  the  pork 

and  beans. 
Our  appetites  were  glorious,  and  we  minded  not  the 

odds, 
And  quaffed  our  coffee  piping  hot ;  'twould  kill  at 

forty  rods ! 

Of  Pittsfield  hospitality,  I  hardly  need  remind  ; — 

This  grand  old  town,  whose  people  were  so  generous 
and  kind ; 

Where  many  a  mansion,  with  the  warmth  of  wel- 
come, was  aglow, 

As,  through  the  "  witching  hours,"  we  tripped  "  the 
light  fantastic  toe." 

And  here,  the  pensive  muse  would  pause,  in  sadness 

to  deplore 
The  death  of  Sarah  Morewood,  who  shall  greet  us 

here  no  more. 

Deep  on  the  white  entablature  of  memory,  we  record 
Her  virtues,  yielding  now,  we  trust,  exceeding  rich 

reward.* 


*  Mrs.  Sarah  A.  Morewood,  late  of  Pittsfield,  now  deceased, 
was  a  lady  of  ample  means,  and  proportionate  generosity.  The 
Thirty-first  and  Thirty-seventh  Kegiments  while  encamped  at 
Pittsfield  had  received  many  favors  at  her  hands,  but  the  Forty- 
ninth  were  especially  indebted  to  her  for  many  acts  of  kindness 


POEM.  261 

At  first,  the  clear  October  days  were  mild  and  warm 
enough ; 

But,  by-and-bye,  the  nights  grew  cold,  and  winds 
blew  chill  and  rough  ; 

The  guard-house  was  a  populous  and  thriving  insti- 
tution, 

And  all  the  while  our  rank  and  file  betrayed  a  dimi- 
nution. 

We  shall  not  soon  forget  the  day,  when  orders  came 

to  leave, — 
To  pack  all  up  for  Worcester,  and  go  that  very 

eve. 
Our  tents  were  struck,  our  knapsacks  slung, — and 

then, — lo,  and  behold, — 
Our  train  came  not,  and  there  we  stood,  a'  shivering 

in  the  cold ! 

On  th'  horrors  of  that  dreadful  night,  I  need  not  here 
to  dwell, — 

The  men  were  all  disgusted,  and  the  officers  as 
well ; 


and  attention.  Before  leaving  Pittsfield  every  officer  was  pre- 
sented by  her  with  a  portfolio  with  writing  materials,  in  con- 
venient form  for  camp  use,  and  also  a  copy  of  the  Scriptures,  and 
a  number  of  miscellaneous  books.  The  whole  regiment  was  the 
recipient  of  her  hospitality  on  many  occasions,  at  Pittsfield,  and 
while  in  barracks  in  New  Y.ork,  and  in  camp  on  Long  Island. 


262  POEMS. 

But,  what  with  show  of  coffee  and  refreshments, 

brought  from  town, 
And  sharing  with  the  men  the  "gloom,"  we  kept 

their  temper  down. 

The  welcome  morning  dawned  at  last;  the  tardy 

train  arrived ; 
We  gave  Camp  Briggs  a  parting  cheer ;  our  spirits 

quite  revived ; 
With  many  a  benediction  from,  many  an  anxious 

friend, 
Away  we  sped : — and  so  I  bring  this  chapter  to  an 

end. 


And  now,  at  Camp  Wool,  Worcester,  we  tarried  for 
awhile. 

We  came  at  night,  and  travel-worn  for  many  a  wea- 
ry mile. 

That  snow-storm  you'll  remember,  and  the  wintry 
winds  that  blew, 

And  the  hospitable  snow-drifts  that  we  had  to  stum- 
ble through. 

But  the  commodious  barracks,  and  the  host  of  gen- 
erous friends 

We  found  down  there  in  Worcester,  soon  made 
complete  amends ; 


POEM.  263 

The  drilling-grounds  were  spacious,  and  the  winds 

began  to  lull ; 
Oh  !  after  traveling  farther,  we  sighed  for  old  Camp 

Wool  I 

And  Colonel  "Ward,*  who  held  command,  and  after- 
wards who  died 

A  hero's  death,  we  here  recall  with  sorrow,  yet  with 
pride. 

A  courteous  gentleman  was  he  ;  a  soldier  true  and 
brave ; 

Long  let  memorial  flowers  bloom  above  his  honored 
grave! 

And  here  it  was  we  organized ;  and  for  our  leader 

chose 

A  private  at  the  war's  outbreak — a  General  at  its  close. 
He  needs  no  cheap  insignia  now — of  eagles,  or  of 

stars, — 
His  badges  of  nobility  are  honorable  scars. t 


*  Colonel  George  Ward  commanded  the  camp  at  Worcester 
when  the  Forty-ninth  arrived.  The  Fifty-first  Massachusetts 
Kegiment  was  also  there.  Colonel  Ward  had  been  in  active  ser- 
vice, and  the  artificial  leg  which  he  wore  testified  that  he  had 
been  to  the  front.  He  afterwards  returned  to  active  duty,  and 
eventually  fell  in  battle. 

f  Major-General  Bartlett  was  in  the  Junior  Class  at  Harvard 
when  the  war  broke  out.  He  enlisted  as  a  private  for  the  three 
months'  campaign  ;  then  he  became  Captain  in  the  Twentieth 


264  POEMS. 

The  "  Bay  State  "*  was  a  famous  place  for  sociable 

resort, 
Where  Captain  Shannon  took  by  storm  the  grand 

Piano  Forte ; 
Where  Weller  improvised  the  dance,  and  Doctor 

Eice  grew  mellow, 
And  spun  his  yarns,  which  made  him  out — a  devil 

of  a  fellow ! 


Massachusetts,  and  was  acting  much  of  the  time  while  in  that 
regiment  as  Field  Officer.  At  the  battle  of  Ball's  Bluff  he  showed 
great  bravery  and  skill,  and  succeeded  in  bringing  off  from  the 
field  a  small  remnant  of  his  men,  crossing  the  river  himself  in 
the  last  boat,  after  seeing  his  command  safely  out  of  the  clutches 
of  the  enemy.  While  before  Yorktown  he  received  a  wound  in 
his  leg,  requiring  amputation  above  the  knee.  Subsequently  he 
was  appointed  Commandant  of  the  post  at  Camp  Briggs,  and 
although  an  entire  stranger  to  the  officers  of  the  Forty-ninth,  so 
favorably  impressed  them,  that  they  chose  him  as  their  Colonel. 
He  served  with  the  regiment,  and  was  severely  wounded  in  the 
attack  on  Port  Hudson,  May  27,  1863.  After  the  Forty-ninth 
was  mustered  out,  he  became  Colonel  of  the  Fifty-seventh,  and 
served  under  Grant  in  the  long  campaign  of  1864-5  against  Rich- 
mond. He  was  wounded  at  the  battle  of  the  "Wilderness,  and  for 
his  bravery  promoted  to  be  Brigadier-General.  At  the  attack  on 
Petersburgh,  at  the  time  of  the  explosion  of  the  mine,  General 
Bartlett  was  captured,  and  was  a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  the 
enemy  for  some  time.  At  the  close  of  the  war,  he  was  brevetted 
a  Major-General,  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  a  most  merited  com- 
pliment, most  fitly  bestowed  at  the  termination  of  so  remarkable 
and  brilliant  a  career.  He  has  since  died  of  diseases  contracted 
in  the  service. 

*  The  Bay  State  Hotel,  "Worcester,  was  the  place  where  we 
went  occasionally  to  get  a  "square  meal,"  and  have  a  social  time. 


POEM.  265 

The  ladies  came  in  troops,  to  do  our  necessary  stitch- 
ing, 

To  glad  us  with  their  charming  smiles,  and  manners 
so  bewitching ; 

In  truth  I  deem  it  very  sure,  had  we  much  longer 
tanied, 

Each  bachelor  would  then  and  there  have  been  de- 
coyed and  married ! 

But  orders  came  to  move  again ; — again  we  watched 

in  vain 
From  day  to  day,  the  coming  of  the  transportation 

train  ; 
"We  lingered  through  Thanksgiving,  and  were  hap- 

%  pily  surprised 
By  dinners  which  those  same  dear  creatures  quickly 

improvised. 

Next  day  we  took  the  Norwich  cars,  and  then  the 

"  Commodore," 
A  steamboat  staunch,  which  bore  us  straight  to  old 

Manhattan's  shore ; 
And  so,  one  drizzly  morning,  fatigued  and  hungered 

all— 
We  stretched  our  line  across  the  Park,  before  the 

City  Hall. 


266  POEMS. 

The  barracks  up  in  Franklin  street,  became  our  next 

resort, — 

A  place  to  study  insect-life  of  every  phase  and  sort ; 
We  tamed  but  a  week  or  so — but  plenty  long  enough ; 
The  best  accommodations  there — to  draw  it  mild — 

were  "rough." 

Behold  us  on  Long  Island  next,  at  Union  Course  en- 
camped ; 

The  ground  was  wet,  and  so  our  feet  and  ardor  both 
were  damped ; 

However,  we  contrived  to  live  and  flourish  passing 
weU, 

For  Hiram  Woodruff's  was  hard  by,  and  Snedeker's 

Hotel. 

* 
And  here  it  was  we  lingered  on  for  quite  a  length  of 

time, 
And  many  a  day  experienced  the  roughness  of  the 

clime  ; 
At  East  New  York  we  had  a  row,  the  Sutler  grew  so 

mean, 
The  boys  confiscated  his  goods,  and  smashed  up  his 

machine.* 

*  The  allusion  here  is  by  no  means  to  our  old  friend  Spring- 
steen, but  to  the  rascal  who  contracted  to  feed  the  troops  on  Long 
Island  by  the  job,  and  served  the  boys  with  rations  of  rancid  pork 
and  beef,  that  were  "an  infringement  of  Goody  ear's  patent  for 
Vulcanized  Rubber." 


POEM.  267 

But,  by-and-by,  they  placed  our  boys, — their  com- 
fort to  increase, — 

Where  trotting  nags  had  quartered  in  the  piping 
times  of  peace  ;* 

And  here  we  stayed,  and  here  we  drilled,  and  kept 
our  snug  abode, 

And  marched  our  soldiers  back  and  forth,  along  the 
smooth  plank  road. 

And  now,  a  large  detachment  was  assigned  for  pro- 
vost work, 

In  picking  up  deserters  in  the  City  of  New 
York. 

Our  boys  resolved  themselves  into  a  Vigilance  Com- 
mittee, 

To  watch  that  mythic  "  Elephant,"  that  stalks  about 
the  city. 

At  length  there  came  an  order,  to  our  most  unfeign- 
ed joy, 

To  embark  our  troops  for  Dixie,  on  the  steamer  "  Il- 
linois ;" 


•  The  barracks  in  the  rear  of  Snedeker's  Hotel,  consisted  of  the 
stalls  which  had  been  used  for  trotting  horses,  in  connection  with 
the  races  at  Union  Course.  The  names  of  many  celebrated  nags 
were  posted  up  in  the  stalls  which  they  had  respectively  occu- 
pied ;  and  the  use  to  which  these  accommodations  had  come  to  be 
appropriated,  was  matter  of  considerable  remark  and  merriment. 


268  POEMS. 

We  set  sail  in  high  feather, — but,  arrived  off  Sandy 

Hook, 
A  feeling  slightly  singular  our  senses  overtook. 

A  disposition  seized  us,  to  keep  the  vessel's  side, 
And  cease  our  conversation,  and  only  watch  the 

tide. 
We  found  some  strange  attraction  the  briny  surge 

beneath, 
And  many  a  mouth  was  wide  agape, — and  Charlie 

lost  his  teeth ! 

And  when  we  reached  Cape  Hatteras,  our  symptoms 

were  redoubled, 
And  many  a  fellow's  diaphragm  with  dreadful  qualms 

was  troubled ; 

O  ever  since,  when  I  desire  my  veriest  foe  to  be 
With  heaviest  penance  visited,  I  wish  him  out  at 

sea ! 

We  gained  at  length  the  South-west  Pass,  of  Missis- 
sippi's stream, 

And  once  more,  of  smooth  waters  and  green  fields, 
began  to  dream  ; 

But  our  voyage  seemed  prosecuted  beneath  a  luck- 
less star, 

And  our  ship  was  over-freighted,  and  we  couldn't 
cross  the  bar. 


POEM.  269 

We  telegraphed  to  New  Orleans,  and  soon  with  joy 

espied 
The  Yankee  boat,   "  New  Brunswick,"   at    anchor 

alongside. 
She  bore  us  up  the  river,  and  beneath  the  clear 

moon's  light, 
Louisiana's  sacred  soil  regaled  our  gladdened  sight. 

Next  morning,  as  we  trod  the  deck,  with  interested 

eye, 
We  gazed  on  fine  plantations,  as  we  swiftly  floated 

by- 

The  sweet  abodes  of  peace  they  seemed,  nor  could 

we,  from  afar, 
Discern   as  yet   the  havoc  wrought  by   fratricidal 

war, 

And  now,  upborne  in  heaven,  the  Day-king  held  his 

throne, 
And  in  the  glorious  sunlight,  a  hundred  steeples 

shone. 
There  sat  the  Crescent  City  on  the  river's  eastern 

shore, 
O  how  unlike  the  City  it  had  been  in  days  before  ! 

Its  levees  all  unoccupied  for  miles  along,  save  where 
A  federal  transport  lay  in  wait  for  orders,  here  and 
there ; 


270  POEMS. 

While  in  mid-stream  the  gunboats  lay,  with  ever 
threat'ning  frown, 

And  iron  fingers  pointing  towards  the  proud  but  con- 
quered town. 

And  here  we  ate  fresh  oranges,  and,  after  noon 
sailed  on, 

A  few  miles  up  the  river,  to  encamp  at  Carrol- 
ton, — 

A  place,  by  no  means  such  as  that  for  which  our 
hopes  were  looking, 

The  most  attractive  thing  to  us,  was  Madame 
Schraeder's  cooking. 

But  here  we  met  the  Thirty-first ;  and  glad  enough 

were  they 
To  welcome  us,  so  lately  come  from  Berkshire  homes 

away; 
And  many  a  spot  we  talked  about,  where  we  would 

like  to  peep  in, 
Of  dinners  that  we  used  to  eat,  and  beds  we  used  to 

sleep  in. 

We  took  some  trips  to  New  Orleanc   along  about 

those  days, 
And  studied  its  geography,  and  learned  its  devious 

ways ; 


POEM.  271 

And  dined  at  the  St.  Charles  Hotel,  and  looked  at 

octoroons, 
But,  others  having  been  and  gone,  we  brought  away 

no  spoons. 

For  Baton  Rouge  we  started  next, — the  night  was 
chill  and  dark, 

It  took  us  until  past  midnight,  our  baggage  to  em- 
bark ; 

The  Major's  horse  fell  overboard ;  we  bivouacked 
on  the  shore, 

And  the  Colonel  vowed  those  cook-stoves  should 
encumber  us  no  more  ! 

We  floated  up  the  river  all  the  following  day  and 

night, 
Till  we  saw  afar  the  State  House,  with  its  massive 

walls  of  white ; 
And  the  Hospital  we  wot  of,  and  the  Arsenal,  all 

standing 
Along  the  river's  eastern  shore,  the  noble  stream 

commanding. 

And  here  we  joined  the  First  Brigade,  in  Augur's 

famed  Division, 
And  carried  on  our  strict  routine  with  order  and 

precision ; 


272  POEMS. 

And  here,  I  recollect,  we  all  financially  were  lusted, 
But  Train  and   Morey  came   across   some   sutlers 
there,  who  trusted  1 

And  here,  until  the  fourteenth  day  of  March,  we  lay 

at  ease, 
When  General  Banks  conceived  a  plan,  with  force 

and  arms  to  seize 
The  stronghold  of  Port  Hudson  ; — but  here  let  the 

Muses  rest, 
I'll  sing  that  olden  ballad ;  it  will  aid  our  memories 

best. 

THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  MONTESINO.* 

Banks,  of  Shenandoah  fame, 

By  the  Crescent  City  swore 
That  Port  Hudson,  on  the  river, 

Should  defy  his  might  no  more. 


*  This  ballad,  "  The  Passage  of  the  Montesino,"  was  written  at 
the  time,  and  on  the  spot,  and  contains  scintillations  of  more  than 
one  genius.  Several  officers  had  a  hand  in  its  production.  In 
fact,  nearly  half  of  it  was  written  before  we  were  invited  to  take  a 
share  in  the  intellectual  effort  necessary  for  its  completion.  The 
several  authors  would  prefer  not  to  publish  their  names,  but  we 
are  bound  to  state  that  the  regiment  could  boast  a  good  deal  of 
undeveloped  poetical  talent.  The  ballad  was  read  by  a  great 
many  within  and  without  the  regiment  at  the  time  it  was  written, 
and  we  are  glad  to  put  it  in  shape  for  preservation,  after  elimi- 
nating some  local  allusions  and  hits,  the  printing  of  which  would 
be  matter  of  doubtful  propriety. 


POEM.  273 

By  the  Crescent  City  swore  it, 

And  sent  without  delay, 
An  order  to  his  Chief  of  Staff, 

To  summon  his  array. 

He  summoned  to  him  Farragut, 

And  gave  him  orders  sealed  ; 
Then,  girding  on  his  armor, 

With  his  staff  he  took  the  field. 

Attend  ye  to  the  story, 

Which  I  will  now  relate  ; 
It  happened  in  the  Lowlands 

Of  Louisiana  State. 

'Twas  on  a  cool  March  morning, 

When  we  our  steeds  bestrode  ; 
And,  just  as  day  was  dawning, 

Struck  the  Bayou  Sara  road.* 

We  crossed  the  Montesino 

By  plank  bridge,  and  pontoon  ; 

And  halted  for  the  bivouac, 
Some  three  hours  after  noon.f 

*  The  road  leading  out  of  Baton  Rouge,  northerly  towards  Port 
Hudson,  some  twenty-five  miles  distant. 

t  The  Bayou  Montesino  is  a  small  stream  or  creek,  about  six 
miles  north  of  Baton  Kouge.  The  place  where  we  "halted  for 
the  bivouac  "  is  some  miles  further  north. 


274  POEMS. 

We  plucked  the  rails  from  off  the  fence — 
Of  boards  there  were  but  few, — 

And  spread  our  scanty  shelter  tents, 
To  shield  us  from  the  dew. 

The  air  was  filled  with  squeal  of  pigs, 

And  cackle  of  the  geese  ; 
While  stalwart  oxen  lost  their  hides, 

And  simple  lambs,  their  fleece.* 

And  now  the  night  was  falling, 

Soon  rose  the  evening  star  ; 
And  through  the  deepening  twilight, 

Gleamed  camp-fires  from  afar. 

But  hark  !  what  noise  arises  1 

This  night  we  sleep  no  more  ; 
For  the  tide  of  battle  surges 

On  Mississippi's  shore  !  t 

*  The  "gobbling"  done  by  our  men  on  that  expedition,  was 
something  tremendous.  It  was  strictly  forbidden  in  orders  from 
Headquarters  ;  but  hunger  knows  no  law,  and  officers  were  obliged 
to  wink  at  some  depredations  upon  private  property  in  the  ene- 
my's country,  especially  as  an  occasional  rare  bit  thereby  found 
its  way  into  their  own  mess.  . 

f  There  was  heavy  cannonading  during  the  night,  as  Farragut 
was  attempting  to  pass  the  batteries  on  the  river,  and  did  succeed 
in  passing  Port  Hudson  with  the  Flagship  Hartford,  and  the  Al- 
batross, The  head  of  our  column  was  also  near  enough  to  Port 
Hudson  to  make  some  demonstration  on  land,  and  divert  as  much 
as  possible  the  attention  of  the  enemy  from  Farragut's  operations. 


POEM.  275 

And  now,  an  aide  from  Chapin, — 

The  Driller  of  Brigades—* 
An  order  brings  to  form  the  line 

In  haste,  without  parades. 

Upon  his  own  black  stallion 

Sat  the  gallant  Brigadier  ; 
And  he  called  to  him  the  Colonel, 

And  he  whispered  in  his  ear  ; 

"  Our  army  has  attacked  the  Fort, 
And  been  repulsed  ;  " — they  say — 

"  In  haste  overtake  the  Forty-eighth,f 
And  homeward  lead  the  way  ! " 


The  bivouac  of  our  brigade  was  probably  three  miles  east  from 
the  river,  and  some  miles  south  from  the  outer  line  of  fortifica- 
tions of  Port  Hudson.  The  explosion  of  our  gunboat,  Mississippi^ 
on  the  river,  lighted  up  our  camp  with  the  glare  of  d.iy :  and  the 
report,  which  was  not  heard  until  the  lapse  of  a  minute,  as  it 
seemed,  was  terrific.  This  was  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  an  order  coming  nearly  simultaneously,  to  fall  in,  and 
march  back  the  way  we  came,  created  a  temporary  panic  which 
is  cursorily  described  in  the  verses  which  follow. 

*  Colonel  Chapin,  of  the  One  Hundred  and  Sixteenth  New  York, 
Commander  of  our  brigade  ;  and,  as  is  hinted,  an  inveterate  drill- 
er thereof.  He  was  a  brave  and  faithful  officer,  and  was  killed 
at  the  storming  of  Port  Hudson,  on  the  27th  of  May.  President 
Lincoln  appointed  him  Brigadier-General,  of  date  the  day  of  his 
death. 

f  The  Forty-eighth  Massachusetts  ;  which,  together  with  the 
One  Hundred  and  Sixteenth  Now  York,  Twenty -first  Maine,  and 
our  own  regiment,  constituted  our  brigade. 


276  POEMS. 

The  road  is  blocked  with  wagons, 
The  darkness  settles  down  ; 

But  swiftly  marched  the  FORTY-NINTH, 
In  silence  back  to  town. 

The  FORTY-NINTH  marched  swiftly  ; 

But  swifter  far  than  they, 
Beneath  their  feet,  the  Forty-eighth 

Let  no  grass  grow,  that  day. 

Their  Colonel  had  been  ordered 
By  General  Banks,  they  say — 

To  hold  the  Montesino, 
And  keep  the  foe  at  bay. 


The  Bayou  Montesino  reached, 
No  foe  was  there  discovered ; 

And  silence  was  the  deity, 
That  o'er  the  valley  hovered. 

Ah,  then,  the  gallant  Forty-eighth 

Did  mighty  deeds  of  valor  ; 
And  courage  on  each  countenance, 

Assumed  the  place  of  pallor. 

And  now  their  Colonel,  homeward  bent — 
Their  manly  zeal  arouses ; 


POEM.  277 

"  Press  on,  brave  boys,  and  seize  and  hold 
Our  lumber  and  cook-houses !  "* 

And  so,  for  many  a  weary  mile, 
In  toilsome  march,  we  find  them  ; 

Before  them  were  their  household  gods  ; 
The  FORTY-NINTH  behind  them  ! 

And  now,  a  short  half  mile  ahead, 
The  old  camp  greets  their  vision  ; 

And  each  indulges  sweet  foretaste 
Of  sleep  and  dreams  elysian. 

But  look !  behind,  a  cloud  of  dust 

Our  eyes  are  now  discerning ; 
It  cannot  be  ; — it  is,  it  is 

An  order  for  returning  !f 

The  Reverend  Chaplain — worthy  soul — 

Had  trotted  on  before  ; 
And  so  he  did  not  hear  his  flock, 

How  dreadfully  they  swore  ! 

*  The  old  camp  of  the  Forty-eighth  at  Baton  Kouge,  had  been 
very  comfortably  arranged,  with  elaborate  cook-houses,  etc.,  and 
the  regiment  seemed  to  feel  great  apprehension,  lest  some  other 
regiment  should  arrive  there  first,  and  establish  "  squatter  sov- 
ereignty." 

t  Just  as  we  came  in  sight  of  our  old  camp  that  day  (the  15th) 
we  received  orders  to  march  back,  and  encamp  at  Bayou  Mon- 
tesino. 


278  POEMS. 

The  sun  was  near  his  setting — 

The  clouds  betokened  rain, 
When,  having  reached  the  Bayou, 

We  pitched  our  tents  again. 

And  now,  in  all  their  fury, 

The  elements  are  roaring  ; 
And  down  in  copious  torrents, 

The  watery  flood  is  pouring. 

O,  orange  groves  and  palm-trees ! 

O,  land  of  milk  and  honey  ! 
Where  "  zephyrs  were  so  very  soft, 

And  skies  so  bright  and  sunny ;" 

We  thought  to  spend  a  winter  here, 

Should  fortune  so  decree  it, 
Would  be  the  thing  : — but,  on  that  night, 

We  really  couldn't  see  it ! 

All  o'er  the  deeply-furrowed  field,  * 

The  waters  rose  so  high, 
Our  boys  could  neither  make  their  beds, 

Nor  keep  then-  powder  dry. 

*  We  encamped  on  "Pike's  Plantation,"  in  a  field  where  cane 
had  been  grown  the  year  before.  The  furrows  were  very  deep, 
and  the  rain  soon  filled  them  with  water.  Here  we  were  never- 
theless tired  enough  to  sleep  ;  but  many  a  poor  fellow  contracted 
the  fever  that  day  and  night,  which,  within  a  fortnight,  consigned 
him  to  a  furrow  in  which  he  still  lies. 


POEM.  279 

The  guns  with  rust  were  covered  o'er, 

And  many  a  luckless  wight 
Began  to  think  his  chance  was  slim, 

If  forced  into  a  fight 

But  if  he  dared  to  try  his  piece, 

And  if  it  chanced  to  go  ; 
He  had  to  stand  at  "  shoulder  arms," 

For  half  a  day  or  so.* 

At  Bayou  Montesino, 

For  six  long  days  we  stayed, 
To  tempt  the  rebel  foemen 

Our  precinct  to  invade. 

We  gobbled  up  their  sugar, 

We  licked  their  syrup  fine  ; 
And  longed  to  lick  the  rebel 

Who  dared  approach  the  line. 


*  It  was  contrary  to  orders  for  any  one  to  fire  off  a  piece  in 
camp,  as  false  alarms  were  to  be  deprecated.  One  of  our  officers 
•was  under  arrest  for  a  week  for  firing  off  a  pistol.  The  boys  were 
sometimes  very  sure  that  their  guns  were  so  rusty  that  they 
wouldn't  go  off,  and  the  cartridges  couldn't  be  drawn  with  a 
wonner  ;  and,  furthermore,  an  attack  from  the  rebels  was  hourly 
expected.  Yet  if  an  unlucky  private  tried  his  piece,  and  it  did  go, 
he  was  summoned  up  in  the  front  of  the  Colonel's  quarters,  and 
ordered  to  do  penance  by  standing  there  under  arms  tili  duly  re- 
leased. The  muse  records  this  as  an  instance  of  dilemmas  in 
which  soldiers  were  sometimes  placed. 


280  POEMS. 

But  only  to  O'Brien's*  gaze, 
And  the  gallant  cavaliers, 

Who  hailed  from  "Little  Bhody," 
The  enemy  appears. 

In  vain  did  General  Dudley 
His  whole  brigade  deploy, 

And  execute  manoeuvres, 
The  rebels  to  decoy. 

For,  as  that  famous  army 
Aforetime,  marched  in  vain  ; 

So,  Dudley  did  go  forward, 
And  bravely  back  again.t 

Of  all  that  week's  adventures, 
We  lack  the  words  to  tell ; 


*  Lieutenant-Colonel  O'Brien,  of  the  Forty-eighth  Massachu- 
setts ;  an  impulsive,  but  brave  Irishman,  who  commanded  the 
storming  party  at  Port  Hudson,  May  27,  was  killed.  On  one 
occasion,  while  at  Bayou  Montesino,  he  was  officer  of  the  day  ; 
and  a  company  of  Rhode  Island  cavalry,  who  wera  out  on  picket, 
thought  they  discovered  the  enemy  approaching,  and  reported 
accordingly  to  Colonel  O'Brien,  who  rushed  to  Headquarters  and 
made  such  representations  that  Dudley's  brigade  of  our  division 
was  ordered  out  to  meet  the  intruders.  It  proved  to  be  a  false 
alarm. 

t  "  The  French  marched  up  the  hill  with  an  army  of  ten  thou- 
sand men,  and  then — marched  down  again  ! " 


POEH.  281 

"  I  never  see  that !  "  says  she  with  "  Jock  " 
And  sighs  "  Ah  !  well !  well !  weU !  "* 

At  length  there  came  an  order — 

On  dress-parade  't  was  read  ; — 
'T  was  General  Banks  who  sent  it, — 

Now  what  do  you  think  it  said  ?  t 

"  My  valiant  boys  ;  take  courage  ! 

Our  object  is  attained  ; 
Your  cue  is  to  be  jubilant, 

For  victory  has  been  gained. 

"  Perhaps  you  deemed  it  '  ninning,' 

The  morn  you  were  so  fleet ; 
But  the  truth  is  you  were  making 

A  '  masterly  retreat ! ' 

"You  see,  I  only  wanted — 

While  Farragut  passed  through 
The  gauntlet  on  the  river — 

That  you  should  halloo  '  Boo  ! ! ! ' 

"  I  came  a  week  beforehand, 
To  Baton  Rouge,  you  know  ; 


*  Favorite  expressions  of  astonishment  with  Frenchman 
"Jock,"  the  Colonel's  servant. 

t  General  Banks  issued  a  congratulatory  order,  saying  the  ob- 
ject of  our  march  was  accomplished,  etc.,  but  as  we  had  failed  to 
capture  Port  Hudson,  we  could  hardly  "see  the  point." 


282 


And  had  a  very  grand  review  ;  — 
But  that  was  all  for  show. 

"  And  now,  my  boys,  I  thank  ye, 
For  gallant  deeds  ye've  done  ; 

Go  back  to  camp  and  rest  ye 
On  the  laurels  ye  have  won. 

"  And  in  the  long  hereafter, 
Be  this  your  glorious  boast  ;  — 

'We  went  with  Banks'  s  army 

To  Port  Hudson  .  .  almost  !  '  " 


Then  there  came  a  thrilling  order  in  the  following 

month  of  May, 

To  take  by  storm  Port  Hudson,  with  ardor  to  essay. 
It  was  a  fearful  struggle,  and  the  muse  forbears  to 

dwell 
On  that  momentous  conflict,  and  the  fate  which  there 

befel.* 


*  On  the  27th  of  May,  the  Forty-ninth  had  one  company  (G) 
on  provost  duty  at  Baton  Rouge  ;  Company  F  was  guarding  the 
baggage  train  ;  about  one  hundred  men  were  on  picket  duty,  and 
a  large  number  in  convalescent  camp  and  hospital,  so  that  but 
two  hundred  and  thirty-three  men  took  part  in  the  assault.  Of 
this  number,  sixteen  were  killed  and  sixty-four  wounded,  making 
eighty  in  all— more  than  one  third  of  the  whole  number.  The 


POEM.  283 

For  memory  will  remind  us  of  the  gallant  boys  who 
died, 

While  with  us  there  contending,  fighting  bravely, 
side  by  side ; 

Who  sleep  in  nameless  graves  afar  beneath  that 
Southern  sod, 

And  whose  souls  were  thence  uplifted  to  the  pres- 
ence of  their  God. 

O,  if  no  other  impulse  moved  our  hearts  to  gather 

here, 
To  hold  one  brief  communion,  with  each  recurring 

year; 
Our  duty  still  were  plain  enough,  since,  haply,  we 

survive, 
Their  sacrifice  to  count,  and  keep  their  memories 

alive. 

O,  such  a  brotherhood  as  ours,  we  shall  not  find  else- 
where, 

And  ours  are  obligations  that  we  never  may  for- 
swear ; 


Colonel  and  Lieutenant-Colonel  were  both  wounded,  and  every 
company  had  one  or  more  officers  killed  or  wounded.  Officers 
and  soldiers  who  served  throughout  the  war,  and  who  partici- 
pated in  the  assault  of  May  27,  have  pronounced  it  one  of  the  se- 
verest and  bloodiest  engagements  in  the  history  of  the  war. 


284  POEMS. 

The  warm,  fraternal  flame  within  our  breasts  can 

ne'er  expire, 
For  our  initiation  was  THE  BAPTISM  OF  FIRE. 

From  the  threshold  of  Eternity,  amid  the  battle's  din, 

We  did  hardly  meet  dismissal,  as  our  brothers  en- 
tered in ; 

They  have  crossed  the  stream  to  where  the  fields 
with  lasting  verdure  smile, 

And  we,  upon  its  hither  shore,  are  lingering  yet 
awhile. 

Yet  not  unscathed  did  we  escape  the  battle's  angry 

storm, — 
I  stand   surrounded  here  by  many  a  scarred  and 

shattered  form. 
The  grim  Death-Angel,   hurling  forth  his   missiles 

thick  and  fast, 
Gave  some  of  us  the  tokens  of  his  presence  as  he 

passed. 

Then  let  us  praise  the  God  of  Hosts,  whose  overrul- 
ing power 

Did  shield  us,  and  deliver  us  in  that  portentous  hour ; 

Nor  let  those  heroes  moulder  there,  unhonored  and 
unwept, 

In  that  mysterious  sleep  which  peradventure  we  had 
slept ! 


POEM.  285 

Thus,  brothers,  in  numbers  less  brief  than  intended, 
I  have  sung,  as  my  impulses  moved  me  ;  and  now, 

Ere  the  harp  be  unstrung,  and  its  minstrelsy  ended, 
Let  us  banish  the  sadness  that  sits  on  each  brow. 

The  conflict  is  over ;  and  Victory,  descending, 
Is  perched  on  the  Banner,  so  proudly  we  bore ; 

And  the  white  Dove  of  Peace  its  glad  presence  is 

lending, 
And  we  list  to  the  clamor  of  battle  no  more. 

I  have  sung  of  our  perils  by  land  and  by  water, 
And  glimpses  of  by-gones  have  sought  to  unfold  ; 

Of  scenes  of  enjoyment,  of  hardship,  of  slaughter ; 
Yet  how  much,  after  all,  there  remaineth  untold  ! 

But  while  memory  lasts,  though  our  heads  become 
hoary, 

The  events  we  were  part  of,  we  shall  not  forget ; 
But  to  our  childrens'  children  shall  narrate  the  story, 
While  with  tears  sympathetic,  their  eyes  shall  be 
wet. 

And  as  time  shall  roll  on,  let  us  happily  gather, 
Now  and  then  one  more  glance  retrospective  to 
cast ; 

With  a  fondness  and  longing,  unlessened,  but  rather 
More  deep,  as  our  years  recede  into  the  past. 


286  POEMS. 

And  now,  let  the  generous  cup  be  o'erflowing 
With  grateful  libations,  potential  to  cheer ; 

The  rapture  of  social  enjoyment  bestowing, 

As  we  strengthen  the  ties  of  our  fellowship  here. 

S.  B.  S. 


LIXES.  287 

LINES, 

READ  AT  GREAT  BARRINGTON,  MASS.,  JULY  4,  1867,  ON 
THE  OCCASION  OF  THE  VISIT  OF  AMERICUS  HOSE  COM- 
PANY, OF  BRIDGEPORT,  TO  GREAT  BARRINGTON, 
AS  THE  GUESTS  OF  HOPE  COMPANY,  NO.  1. 

THOSE  sempiternal  editors,  on  both  sides  of  the  border, 
Who,  sometimes,   for  the  lack  of  news,  concoct  a 

batch  to  order, — 
Have  been  proclaiming  all  along,  that,  previous  to 

the  races,* 
My  Pegasus  would  volunteer  to  show  the  crowd  his 

paces. 

I  wish  those  editors  could  know  how  serious  a  thing 
It  is,  on  all  occasions  to  be  advertised  to  sing  ; 
And,  furthermore,  that  Pegasus,  when  once  you  try 

the  rule 
That — will  he,  nil  he — he  shall  GO  : — is  staky  as  a 

mule! 

And  yet,  upon  this  festal  day,  when,  on  my  native 

heather, 
So  many  new  and  old-time  friends  are  haply  met 

together ; 

*  The  exercises  of  the  celebration  that  day,  concluded  with 
races  on  the  Housatonic  Fair  Grounds. 


288  POEMS. 

I  fain  would  clothe  the  sentiments  which  to  the  hour 

belong 
In  drapery  of  fitting  rhyme,  and  comely  garb  of  song. 

I  stand  upon  my  native  hills ;  and  once  again  be- 
hold 

Familiar  scenes — all  redolent  of  memories  of  old  ; 

The  grand  old  elms  in  majesty  the  smiling  landscape 
crown, 

And  on  the  sweet  vale,  as  of  yore,  the  lordly  hills 
look  down.- 

I  clasp  the  hands  of  early  friends ;  while,  answering 

to  my  gaze, 
Gleam  genial   stranger  faces  here, — the  friends  of 

latter  days ; 
The   present   and  the  past  unite  ; — the  mountains 

greet  the  sea, — 
The  rare  occasion  is  replete  with  poetry  to  me. 

Here  did  my  young  eyes  look  their  first  on  things 

beneath  the  sun, — 
Here  were  my  earliest  lessons  learned ;  my  earliest 

prizes  won ; 
Here  the  delightful  school-boy  days  flew  onward  all 

too  fast, 
And  here  my  early  manhood  years  in  sweet  content 

were  passed. 


LINES.  289 

And  many  a  merry,  glorious  Fourth,  as  year  suc- 
ceeded year, 

Have  I,  in  unforgotten  days,  enjoyed  and  welcomed 
here. 

There's  many  an  "  old  inhabitant "  can  testify,  I 
trow, 

What  annual  racket  I  helped  make — say  twenty 
years  ago ! 

"We  boys  were  wont  to  congregate  in  force  the  eve 

before, 
And  make  the  whole  night  hideous  with  glare,  and 

din,  and  roar. 
I  met  some  of  them, — older  grown — last  evening  at 

the  train, 
And,  for  the  nonce,  I  could  but  feel  that  we  were 

boys  again ! 

But  those  old  times  have  passed  away  ; — their  very 
memories  seem 

Far  down  the  distant  retrospect,  like  some  mysteri- 
ous dream. 

No  more  those  primitive  affairs  in  once  secluded  vale : 

For,  now-a-days,  we  celebrate  upon  a  larger  scale. 

No  sanguine  orator  unto  my  boyish  ears  foretold 
In  highest  flights  of  prophecy,  the  scene  we  here  be- 
hold. 


290  POEMS. 

The  "  woolen  works "  in  Barrington  were  then  but 

sheep  and  lambs, 
And  Bridgeport,  an  obscure  resort  for  men  in  quest 

of  clams. 

The  steam-car  was  unknown  up  through  the  Housa- 

tonic  vale ; 
'Twas  deemed  a  quite  indecorous  thing  to  ride  upon 

a  rail ; 
The  man  who  lived  in  Berkshire,  and  had  seen  Long 

Island  Sound, 
Was  no  small  "  pumpkins,"  you  may  bet,  in  all  the 

country  round ! 

But,  by-and-by,  the  thought  occurred  to  some  sa- 
gacious mind, 

Old  Berkshire  to  Long  Island  Sound,  by  railroad 
ties  to  bind ; 

So,  Barrington's  the  depot  now  for  many  a  thriving 
town, 

And  Bridgeport  has  become,  indeed,  a  city  of  re- 
nown. 

And  so  it  was  a  pleasant  thought  for  Berkshire  boys, 

to-day, 
To    bid  us  hasten  hither  from  a  hundred  miles 

away. 


LINES.  291 

I  know  a  heartier  patriotism  each  stranger  bosom 

thrills, 
Inhaled  with   this    sweet   atmosphere   among  the 

Berkshire  hills ! 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

And  now,  may  this  acquaintanceship,  so  pleasantly 

begun, 
Retain  a  lasting  friendship  in  the  breast  of  every 

one; 
And  when  the  day  is  over,  and  we  seek  our  homes 

again, 
May  each  have  added  one  bright  link  to  memory's 

golden  chain  I 

S.  B.  S. 


292  POEMS. 


POEM, 

DELIVERED  BEFORE  THE  GRAND  CHAPTER  OF  THE  ZETA 

PSI    FRATERNITY,   AT    DELMONICO's,  NEW  YORK 

CITY,   DECEMBER  27,   1867. 

I  GO  back  twenty  years  to-night,  and  bring  to  mind 
the  days, 

When  with  my  college  peers  I  strove  to  win  scholas- 
tic bays ; 

And  varied  the  routine  of  tasks  laborious  and  dry, 

By  joining  in  the  mystic  rites  of  glorious  ZETA  PSI. 

I  see,  in  that  far  retrospect,  that  little  band  of  ours, 

Which  held  its  conclaves  just  beyond  where  lordly 
Greylock  towers : — 

For  I'm  a  Berkshire  boy,  and  gained  my  academic 
knowledge 

In  what  you  might  be  pleased  to  term,  a  mere  "  fresh- 
water college." 

O,  very  pleasant  were  the  hours  we  spent  within  the 

place 
Where  our  enthroned  Hierophant  alone  unveiled  his 

face ; 

Vouchsafing  intellectual  food  to  each  and  every  one, 
And  eke  the  generous  dessert  of  good-fellowship  and 

fun. 


POEM.  293 

What  rousing  times  we  used  to  have,  electioneering, 

then, 
When  each  commencement-day  brought  on  a  bevy 

of  fresh  men ; 

When  every  society  disparaged  all  the  others, 
And  reaped  the  annual  harvest  of  its  new-inducted 

brothers ! 

I've  been  a   politician  since,   and  mingled  in  the 

brawls 

Of  primaries,  and  caucuses,  and  legislative  halls  ; 
And  watched  political  machines,  and  been  within 

the  ring, 
And  button-holed  the  Governor,  and  all  that  sort  of 

thing; 

But  ne'er  within  my  memory  did  affairs  of  such  con- 
cern 

Depend  on  human  strategy,  or  fate's  capricious  turn, 

As.  those  contentions,  who  should  hold  the  favorite 
positions, 

And  bear  away  the  honors  at  the  college  exhibi- 
tions. 

And  when  it  chanced, — to  gladden  my  enthusiastic 

eye,— 
That  on  the  victor's  person  flashed  the  badge  of 

ZETA  Psi ; 


294  POEMS. 

I  tell  you,  't  was  a  prize  unmatclied  by  many  later 

toys  — 
For  men  still  clutch  their  playthings,  and  are  simply 

older  boys. 

The  college  is  a  microcosm  ;  and  if  we  don't  inherit, 
We're  sure  as  students  to  imbibe  enough  of  party 

spirit ; 
The  tree  inclines  precisely  as  at  first  you  bend  the 

twig— 
A.  Oakey  was"  a  "Kap,"  I'm  told,  and  Hoffman  was 

a"Sig." 

The  youth  who  leads  a  college  clique,  will,  doubtless, 

lead  a  clan 
Somewhere,  upon  a  larger  scale,  when  he  becomes  a 

man; 
And  he  whom  all  his  cronies  hailed,  a  jovial,  genial 

fellow, 
Will  hold  his  own,  e'en  when  the  leaf  of  life  is  sere 

and  yellow. 

The  boys   of  twenty  years  ago !  as  I  recall  them 

now, 
Alternate  shade  and  sunshine  seem  to  flit  across  my 

brow; 


POEM.  295 

I  follow  down  the  catalogue  the  old  names,  one  by 

one, 
And  note  with  varied  sentiments  what  time  for  each 

hath  done. 

There's  one,  is  U.  S.  Senator  ;  and  two  or  three  de- 
termine 

The  weighty  matters  of  the  law,  and  wear  judicial 
ermine; 

And  some  have  found  the  source  of  wealth  remark- 
ably prolific, 

Upon  the  far  Nevada  heights,  and  shores  of  the  Pa- 
cific. 

Some  argue  causes  at  the  bar,  and  legal  quibbles 

moot, 
And  some — Lord  help  them  ! — strive  to  "  teach  the 

young  idea  to  shoot ;" 
Some  deal  in  goods  and  merchandise,  with  manners 

bland  and  pleasing, 
And  some  the  tortured  purse  of  poor  old  "  Uncle 

Sam  "  are  squeezing. 

Some  grace  the  pulpit,  and  proclaim  the  everlasting 

Word; 
Some,  in  the  latter  pregnant  times,  have  wielded  well 

the  sword ; 


296  POEMS. 

And  one — a   mighty   handsome   chap — a   veritable 

Paris — 
Has  simply  raised  a  fine  moustache,  and — carried  off 

an  heiress ! 

Some  boast  a  goodly  heritage,  and  live  aloof  from 

cares ; 
Some  operate  in  fancy  stocks,  among  the  '•  Bulls 

and  Bears ;" 
Some  scribble  for  the  papers,  and  employ  the  art 

phonetic ; 
Some  wake  the  oratorio  strain,  and  some  the  strain 

poetic. 

And  some,  in  life's  bright  morning,  have  responded 

to  the  call, 
Which,  soon  or  late,  shall  send  forth  its  alarum  to 

iis  all. 
I  count  upon  that  little  list,  the  death  stars  ; — they 

are  seven ; 
So  many  old-time  friends  have  sped  from  earth — we 

trust,  to  Heaven. 

But  turn  we  now  to  witness,  after  lapse  of  twenty 
years, 

How  fair  a  thing,  and  vigorous,  our  ZETA  Psi  ap- 
pears ; 


POEM.  297 

From  tiny  seed,  on  welcome  soil,  the  forest  mon- 

archs  grow, 
And  they  who  plant,  do  oftentimes  plant  wiser  than 

they  know. 

The  tender  shoot,  whose  destiny  no  mortal  might 
foresee, 

Hath  grown,  and  flourished,  and  become  a  very 
Banyan  tree ; 

And  hundreds  of  ingenuous  youth,  beneath  its  bow- 
ers have  strayed, 

To  hear  the  whispering  of  its  leaves,  and  linger 
'neath  its  shade. 

We  build  our  own  best  monuments  ;  our  own  deeds, 

after  all, 
Outlast  the  brass,  or  marble,  or  the  niche  in  storied 

hall. 
"Well  saith  the  Poet — "  We  ourselves  can  make  our 

lives  sublime, 
And,  dying,  leave  behind  us  footprints  on  the  sands 

of  Time." 

I  know  not  whether  simple  slab,  or  more  pretentious 

pile, 
Repeats  the  tale  that  Sommers*  lived,  and  wrought 

on  earth  awhile ; 

*  John  B.  Yates  Sommers,  —Founder  of  the  Fraternity. 


298  POEMS. 

What  recks  he,  since  in  hearts  like  these  shall  be  en- 
shrined his  name, 

And  Time  itself  shah1  only  add  fresh  laurels  to  IP* 
fame ! 

And  now,  dear  brothers,  standing  here,  within  your 

midst,  I  seem 
Like  mythic  Kip  Yan  Winkle,  softly  wakened  from 

a  dream. 
Emotions  passing  sweetest  song  my  inmost  heart 

o'erflow, 
As  I  renew  the  vows  to-day  of  twenty  years  ago. 

I  feel  it  was  a  kindly  act,  rejuvenating  me, 

Who  watched  the  infant  stem  erewhile,  to  now  be- 
hold the  tree. 

The  choruses  of  bygone  years  repeat  their  glad  re- 
frain, 

And  I  am  Heaven's  favorite — a  college  boy  again  ! 

And  now,  long  live  our  ZETA  Psi !  and  as  the  years 

roll  round, 
May  roots  and  branches  new  on  our  fraternal  tree 

be  found ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  beneath  its  overhanging  boughs, 
May  it  be  ours  to  congregate,  and  ratify  our  vows. 


POEM.  299 

And  you,  my  younger  brethren,  pray  remember,  that 

to  me, 
And  my  compeers,  you  owe  it  now,  to  cultivate  the 

tree ; 
So  shall  it  thrive,  and  may  kind  Heaven  vouchsafe 

that  you  and  I, 
May  live  to  see  our  grand-sons  wear  the  badge  of 

ZETAPsil 

S.  B.  S. 


300  .POEMS. 

A  LEGEND  OF  BLACK  ROCK. 

AN  OWER  TRUE  TALE. 

'TWAS  on  the  first  of  April,  and  the  sun  had  just  gone 
down, 

And  the  shades  of  night  were  falling  on  .1  certain 
sea-coast  town  -, 

When  a  few  congenial  spirits  somehow  happened  to 
combine, 

At  the  Doctor's  to  assemble,  and  discourse  of  tur- 
pentine.* 

Now,  these  chaps  who  thus  assembled,  we  may  just 
as  well  premise, 

Were  a  parcel  of  stockholders  in  a  famous  enter- 
prise, 

To  extract  from  out  a  cord  of  wood,  when  duly  baked 
and  fried, 

Turpentine,  tar,  coal,  and  acid,  and  no  end  of  gas 
beside. 

But  like  all  contrivance  human,  this  had  had  its  ups 

and  downs, 
And  dame  fortune  had  cajoled  it  with   alternate 

smiles  and  frowns, 

*  Dr.  J ,  an  enthusiastic  stockholder. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BLACK  ROCK  3Q1 

And  the  sessions  at  the  sanctum  where  the  Doctor 

sat  in  state, 
Had  been  frequent  as  the  changes  and  vicissitudes 

of  fate. 

"When  the  "  Holmes  "*  came  in  all  laden  with  a  car- 
go worth  the  while, 

It  was  better  than  his  doses  to  behold  the  Doctor's 
smile. 

When  't  was  thought  the  "  Holmes  "  was  cast  away, 
and  every  one  felt  blue, 

'T  was  the  Doctor  who  could,  best  of  all,  their  flag- 
ging hopes  renew. 

Now,  on  this  same  first  of  April,  there  had  been  a 

lucky  fry, 
And  the  hopes  of  all  the  party  were  proportionately 

high, 
And  the  Doctor  was  foretelling,  with  the  wisdom  of 

a  prophet, 
How  this  would  beat  all  frying  pans  elsewhere  this 

side  of  Tophet. 

Just  then  there  came  a  knocking  at  the  Doctor's  of- 
fice door, 

And  a  rather  stout  man  opened  it,  and  stalked  the 
threshold  o'er  ; 

'  The  "  Madison  Holmes,"  a  schooner  bonght  by  the  Company 
for  transporting  pine  from  North  Carolina. 


302  POEMS. 

Said  he,  "  Get  up  your  horse,  Doctor,  as  quick  as 

e'er  you  can, 
Our  deuced  works   are  all   a-fire,    as   I'm  a  living 

man!  " 

Up  rose  the  frightened  company,  in  consternation 
all, 

And  on  each  countenance  at  once  -there  came  a  sol- 
emn pall, 

But  the  Doctor  cried,  "  Sit  still,  my  boys ;  no  April 
fool  am  I, — 

There's  no  such  thing ;  and  as  for  you,  I  tell  you 
sir,  you  lie!" 

But  the  stout  man  called  the  negro  man,  and  bade 

him  go  ahead, 
And  get  the  best  nag  harnessed,  and  the  buggy  from 

the  shed ; 
And  the  Doctor  compromised  so  far,  he'd  go  at  least 

to  see 
"What,   under  heaven,   all  that  flame  and  ominous 

smoke  could  be. 

They  westward  drove — the   Doctor  and  the  stout 

aforesaid  man ; 
A  lurid  light  the  while  had  come,  the  western  sky  to 

span; 


A  LEGEND  OF  BLACK  ROCK  3Q3 

They  reached,  they  crossed  Division  street ;  in  mad 

career  they  flew, 
When  all  at  once  the  dreadful  scene  burst  forth  upon 

their  view ! 

"My  God!  my  God!"  the  Doctor  cried;  "and  do 

I  wake  or  dream  ? 
And  can  that  be  our  kindling  wood  which  makes  that 

awful  gleam  ? 
And  must  they  burst,  those  tender  chords,  that  bind 

this  heart  of  mine, 
To  all  those  cords  of  wood,  and  eke  that  tar  and 

"  turpentine !" 

Meanwhile  the  stout  man  cocked  his  eye,  and  with 
poetic  gaze, 

Regarded  Nature's  grander  moods,  and  watched  the 
gorgeous  blaze. 

"  Behold !  "  said  he,  "  my  friend,  behold,  how  awful- 
ly sublime, 

Up  toward  the  stars,  to  contemplate  those  blazing 
cinders  climb ! " 

"  Oh,  dear !  oh,  dear ! "  the  Doctor  said,  "  why  over- 
flow my  cup 

Of  sorrow,  as  I  only  see  my  fondest  hopes  go 
up. 


304  POEMS. 

Untold  per  cent.,  softest  of  things,  and  almost  here 

in  pocket, — 
Spirit  of  Shadrach !  there  it  goes,  brief,  brilliant  as 

a  rocket !  " 

In  rage  the  Doctor  lashed  his  steed ;  they  quickly 
cleared  the  mile, 

Which  brought  them  to  the  fated  spot  where  they 
had  staked  theL  pile. 

5T  was  nothing  but  a  funeral  pile  ;  they  could  do 
nought  but  mourn, 

For  that  which  was,  but  now  had  gone  to  that  pro- 
verbial "bourne." 


The  pensive  pilgrim,  as  he  wends  his  way  along  the 

coast, 
May  note  to-day  an  inlet,  whose  good  harborage  is 

its  boast  ; 
A  splendid  shaft  there  towers,  inscribed,  "A.-D.,- 


Which  means  to  say  —  "  This  classic  field  is  soaked 

with  —  TURPENTINE  !  " 

S.  B.  S. 


ROSE  COTTAGE  REMINISCENCES.  305 

ROSE  COTTAGE  REMINISCENCES. 

TO   MRS.   JOSEPHINE  . 

You  threw  me  down  "  the  glove  "  one  day— 

(The  "  mitten  "  long  before  !) 
And  bade  me  in  some  simple  lay 

Recall  the  times  of  yore  ; 
When  you  and  I  were  lass  and  lad, 

And  life-tints  all  were  rosy, 
Whose  pleasures  were  in  common  had, 

By  "Samivel"  and  "  Josie." 

So,  Josie,  dear  ; — for  e'en  so  now 

I'll  venture  to  address  thee, — 
Tho'  other  lips  returned  thy  vow, 

And  other  hands  caress  thee, — 
A  ballad  of  the  olden  time 

I'll  sing  ; — but  since  our  houses 
Are  side  by  side,  pray  keep  the  rhyme 

A  secret  from  our  spouses  ! 

And  to  begin  :  two  decades  back 

Along  the  vale  of  years, 
A  distant  speck  on  memory's  track, 

"  Rose  Cottage  "  school  appears. 


306  POEMS. 

The  place  is  strangely  altered  now, 

And  where  the  roses  flourished, 
There  stands  a  shrine  where  sinners  bow, 

And  hungry  souls  are  nourished. 

I  mind  me  of  the  "  corridor  " — 

A  sort  of  masked  embrasure, 
Behind  which  maidens  waited  for 

And  spied  the  beaux  at  leisure. 
I  mind  me  of  the  houses  twain, 

Between,  the  cosy  arbor, — 
When  "  Tommy  "  chased  some  venturous  swain, 

'T  was  no  ungrateful  harbor. 

O,  peaceful  scenes !  O,  classic  shades  ! 

Where  precept  and  example 
Were  both  combined  in  three  staid  maids — 

'T  would  seem  the  means  were  ample 
To  keep  those  cloistered  nuns  intent 

Upon  the  tasks  before  them  ; 
And  yet  how  many  a  smile  was  lent 

To  lads  who  dared  adore  them  ! 

And  oh  !  what  various,  nameless  arts, 

And  how  much  necromancy, 
Did  occupy  those  loving  hearts, 

To  circumvent  "  Miss  Nancy ! " 


.;SITY  ) 
J 

ROSE  COTTAGE  REMINISCENCES,  3Q? 

How,  in  a  trice,  on  many  a  night, 

That  lawn  became  Sahara, 
As  dawned  on  some  fond  couple's  sight, 

The  spectre  of  "  Miss  Sarah !  " 

I  recollect  the  serenade 

Was  quite  a  favorite  cover, 
'Neath  which  the  old,  old  game  was  played 

'Twixt  lady-love  and  lover  : 
For,  while  the  song  allured  each  ear, 

And  melodies  were  blending, 
The  Miff*  <lu".r  to  windows  near 

Were  covertly  ascending ! 

But  as  for  me,  I  quite  despised 

The  rash,  adventurous  measures, 
By  ardent  lovers  improvised 

For  amatory  pleasures. 
To  me  opposed  no  envious  space 

Those  fairy  realms  to  gain  ; 
For,  'twixt  them  and  my  dwelling-place 

"Was  nothing  but  a  lane. 

Lord  !  how  my  heart  went  pit-a-pat, 

And  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
As  'neath  that  portico  I  sat, 

To  hear  my  charmer  sing. 


308  POEMS. 

I  studied  law, — or  so  professed,— 

But  now,  at  this  remove, 
The  truth  were  just  as  well  confessed, — 

I  learned  no  law  but  love. 

0  yes  !  I  fell  in  love,  of  course  ; 
But  did  not  dare  to  tell  it, 

For  fear  'twould  make  the  matter  worse, 

Should  my  beloved  repel  it. 
'Twere  bad  enough  to  lose  my  heart, 

But  vastly  better  so, 
Than  have  my  darling  say  "  depart ! " 

And  tell  me—"  not  for  Joe  ! " 

And  so,  no  doubt,  it  came  about 
That  when  school-days  were  over, 

"  That  other  fellow  "  found  you  out, 
And  proved  a  bolder  lover. 

But,  sometimes,  as  my  thoughts  recur 
To  that  "  Kose  Cottage  "  garden, 

1  heave  one  sigh  for  "  hours  that  were," 
And  feel  like "ENOCH  ABDEN." 

s.  B.  a 


LINES.  309 


LINES. 

READ  AT  THE  CLAM-BAKE  WHICH  WAS    GIVEN  AT  THE  RE- 
UNION OF    THE  FORTY-NINTH   REGIMENT,  MASSA- 
CHUSETTS   VOLUNTEERS,  AT  PITTSFTEID, 
SEPT.    11,  1873. 

STRANGE  !    how    a  clam,  a  closed-mouthed    thing, 

and  undeclamatory, 
Should  make  you  all  so  clamorous  for  speech,  or 

song,  or  story ; 
But  observation  goes  to  show,  at  divers  times  and 

places, 
The  stillest  fellows,  oftentimes,  turn  out  the  hardest 

cases. 

A  missive  from  the  adjutant,  a  week  or  so  ago, 
Announced  that  you  would  shell  to-day  your  old  bi- 

valvous  foe ; 

And  then,  apparently  to  make  the  invitation  louder, 
He  added,  with  significance,  "there'll  also  be  clam- 
chowder  !" 

He  bade  me  join  the  festive  crowd,  and  gulph  a  clam 

or  two, 
Since,  when  the  war  was  raging,  I  was  on  the  Gulf 

with  you. 


310  POEMS. 

Said  he,  "  there'll  be  a  chowder  inixt  of  mirth  and 

speech  and  song, 
And  clams  with  toast,  and  toasts  with  clams;  so, 

prithee,  come  along !" 

"  Oh,  no  you  don't !  "  at  first  methought ;  "  I  know 

what  you're  about — 
You  only  want  to  ope  my  shell,  and  then,  to   draw 

me  out. 

I  see  what  you  are  raking  for  ;  I  do,  by  the  Eternal ! 
And  after  you  have  shelled  the  clams,  you  mean  to 

shell  the  Colonel!— 

And    yet,  upon    reflection,     it    will    never   do," — 

thinks  I — 

"  To  let  so  glorious  a  chance  for  feed  and  fun  go  by, 
I'll  chew  upon  't ;  for  maugre  all  apologetic  shams, 
Clam-av-i  de  profundis — I  am  always  death  on 

clams !" 

And  so  I  come ;  and  knowing  well  how  very  apt  I 

am 

To  overeat,  and  thus  become  as  stupid  as  a  clam, 
I  bring  my  post-coanatic  toast,  all  ready- wrought  in 

song, 
Done  up  like  clams,  compact  and  round — I  never 

liked  them  "long!" 


LIVES.  311 

So  here's  to  you,  my  gallant  boys — old  Berkshire's 
noble  sons, 

Who  erst  amid  the  battle's  din,  stood  firmly  by  the 
guns, 

And  oft  on  many  a  well-fought  field,  made  every 
"  Johnny  "  stare, 

When  something  worse  than  clam-shells  went  career- 
ing thro'  the  air ! 

Right  bravely  did  ye  clamber  up  the  heights,  where 

lurked  afar 
The  foe,  amid  the  horrid  din   and  clamor  of  the 

war; 
And  over-stayed  your  term,  until  Port    Hudson's 

pluck  had  died  out, 
Resolved  to  break  their  boasted  shell,  and  sworn  to 

"clam  the  tide  out!" 

Oh,  how  as  yesterday  they  seem — the  old  familiar 
scenes, 

Of  which  we  each  and  all  were  part,  way  down  at 
New  Orleans ! 

No  slight  fraternal  kinship  binds  us  henceforth  to 
each  other, 

In  every  one  I  recognize  a  comrade  and  a  broth- 
er. 


312  POEMS. 

A  health  to  each  and  every  one,  and  as  the  years 

roll  round, 
May  each  one  at  the  annual  feast  continue  to  be 

found, 
And  live  to  see  a  grand  career   attend  our  Uncle 

Sam, 
And  spend  his  days  in  sweet  content,  and — happy 

as  a  clam ! 

S.  B.  S. 


MILK.  313 

EXTRACT  FROM  A  POEM  ENTITLED 
MILK. 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  SOCIAL  AND  LITERARY  ENTERTAIN- 
MENT, BRIDGEPORT,  CONN.,  JANUARY  6,  1870. 

WE'RE  something  like  those  funny  fish  we  see  be- 
neath the  tide, 

Which  often,  as  we  watch  them  close,  display  a 
whiter  side. 

This  whiter  side,  which  seems  a  part  of  every  human 
being, 

When  once  we  get  a  glimpse  of  it,  is  always  worth 
the  seeing. 

You  think   yourself  familiar  with  some  cross  and 

crabbed  neighbor, 
Because  you  see  him  come  and  go  about  his  wonted 

labor, 
Till  some  day  you  shall  meet  him  with  his  harness 

off,  and  mellow, 
And  find  him,  to  your  great  surprise,  a  downright 

genial  fellow. 

I  knew  a  man,  I  thought  so  mean,  'twas  simply  his 

to  grovel, 
Until  I  caught  him  laughing  o'er  the  contents  of  a 

novel ; 


314  POEMS. 

And  such  a  knack  that  fellow  had,  at  anecdote  re- 
peating, 

He'd  turn  into  high  carnival,  the  stiffest  quaker 
meeting! 

Men's  very  foibles  often  make  their  most  attractive 

features, 
To  tell  the  truth — 'twixt  you  and  me — I  hate  these 

perfect  creatures ! 
I  honor  each  embodiment  of  goodness,  truth  and 

meekness, 
But  hang  the  chap  who  won't  confess  one  amiable 

weakness ! 

The  life  of  every  mortal  man  is  more  or  less  a  rid^ 

die- 
Why,  Nero  must  have  had  some  soul ;  because  he 

played  the  fiddle ! 
The  hardest,  driest  human  plant  which  Nature  e'er 

produces, 

Would  not  be  human,  did  it  not  exude  some  frag- 
rant juices. 

All  men   are  poets — it   is  said — and  'tis  a  saying 

trite, — 
There  must  be  poets  who  can  feel  what  other  poets 

write; 


MILK  315 

Ah  !  those  unwritten  hymns  the  soul  unto  itself  hath 

sung, 
In   tabernacles  not  of  clay,  may   one   day  find  a 

tongue ! 

The  whiter  side  of  every  man — no  matter  how  re- 
nowned, 

However  brave,  however  great,  or  gifted,  or  pro- 
found— 

It  is  the  side  which  gives  the  zest  to  biographic 
story, 

And  rounds  at  least  the  hero's  fame,  and  supple- 
ments his  glory. 

The  hero  soon  becomes  a  myth,  who  shows  no 
whiter  side ; 

Of  whom  grave  history  simply  states,  he  lived  and 
wrought  and  died ; 

Some  altogether  human  traits  their  added  light  must 
shed, 

Or  else,  although  his  works  survive,  the  man  is  very- 
dead. 

His  whiter  side,  when  all  the  scenes  of  mortal  life  are 

past, 
I  reckon   will    best  satisfy   the    man    himself    at 

last. 


316  POEMS. 

We  may  find    sermons    everywhere; — behold  the 

fishes  even, 
How,  when  they  die,  they  always  turn  the  whiter 

side  to  heaven ! 

And  now  I  come  to  tell  you  why  we  are,  or  should 

be  here — 
To  sink  our  selfish  selves,  and  let  our  better  selves 

appear ; 

To  linger  for  a  little  while  on  one  of  life's  oases, 
And  help  each  other  cultivate  our  most  redeeming 

graces. 

Come,  let  us  then  be  human,  and  deal  gently  with 

each  other, 
And  find  in  every  one  a  friend,  and  every  friend  a 

brother ; 
What  sweets  the  cup  of  life  affords,  O  let  us  freely 


A  few  more  kind  or  selfish  deeds,  and  we  shall  be- 
elsewhere  ! 

Here  let  us  interchange  the  gifts  vouchsafed  us  from 

above, 

Of  wisdom,  wit,  or  melody,— at  any  rate,  of  Love, 
And  have   our  hearts  impregnated  with  Charity's 

sweet  leaven, 
A  little   purged  of  earthly   dross — a   little    nearer 

Heaven. 


MILK.  317 

So,  I've  discoursed  of  milk ;  like  mercy's   quality, 
not  strained — 

From  far  beyond  the  milky-way,  like  gentle  dew- 
drops  rained ; 

Perhaps  the  song  has  been  obscure ;  perhaps  it  was 
your  blindness — 

You  recognize  the  theme  at  last — "  The  Milk  of  Hu- 
man Kindness." 

S.  B.  S. 


318  POJSMSL 


GAGBOW, 

WRITTEN  IN  A  GEEEN  HOUSE,  UPON  HEARING  OF  THE  ILL- 
NESS   OF   A   TENDER  PLANT,  WHICH  HAD  BEEN 
NURTURED  IN  A  WARM  CLIMATE. 

IF  the  Dutch  Flora  thinks  he  floors, 
Or,  if  the  Florid  thinks  he's  floored, 

They  know  not  well  the  subtle  powers 
By  which  the  brightest  color's  lowered. 

Far  and  Forgot  are  sweet  with  mist ; 

Shadow  and  sunlight,  still  I'm  game ; 
My  vanished  head-piece  struck  Grow's  fist ; 

He  'scaped ;  I  fell,  but  take  the  blame. 

They  reckon  ill  who  count  me  out ; 

When  quick  I  fly,  I  triumph  bring ; 
I  am  the  router  and  the  rout — 

Alone  the  bully  of  the  ring ! 

Galusha  trespassed  on  our  aisle, 

I  knew  not  of  his  sacred  art ; 
Now  a  meek  Christian  do  I  smile — 

I  heard  no  sound,  I  feel  no  smart. 


QAGROW.  319 

ARGUMENT. 

For ;  If  a  Dutchman  thinks  he  hits, 

Or,  if  the  fallen  feels  a  blow, 
They  know  not  well  the  subtle  pits 

That  keep,  and  stub  a  brave  man's  toe  I 

C.A.& 


320  POEMS. 

POEM, 

READ   ON  DECORATION  DAY,   AT  BRIDGEPORT,    CONN.,   MAY 
30,    1869. 

ONCE  again,  O  faithful  comrades,  we  are  welcoming 

the  hour 
When   the  spring-time   lingers   only  to  resign  her 

floral  dower ; 
And  with  tenderest  emotion,  and  with  reverent  steps, 

we  tread 
Where  the  proud   earth    shrines  the  ashes   of  our 

brave,  heroic  dead. 

In  the  hallowed  burial-places,  other  loved  and  lost 
ones  lie, 

But  we  do  not  heed  their  presence,  as  to-day  we  pass 
them  by. 

And  the  harvest  of  the  roses  with  a  jealous  hand 
bestow, 

Where  the  partners  of  our  own  best  deeds  are  mould- 
ering cold  and  low. 

Let  republics  prove  unmindful  of  the  love  they  once 

professed, 
And  withhold  the  meed  of  honor  from  their  noblest 

and  their  best ; 


POEM.  321 

And  to  newer  idols  turn  them  with  unseemly  haste 

aside, 
And  forget  those  who  but  yesterday  so  gloriously 

died; 

We  have  sworn  that  long  as  unto  us  remembrances 
shall  come 

Of  the  sad  adieus  to  cherished  ones,  and  dear  de- 
lights of  home  ; 

Of  the  hardships  of  the  prison,  of  the  pestilence's 
ire,— 

Of  the  weary  march,  and  battle's  awful  baptism  of 
fire; 

That  the  comrades  who  endured  with  us  the  labor 

and  the  pain ; 
Who  in  youth's  high  flush  went  bravely  forth,  but 

came  not  back  again, 
Shall  be  heroes  of  a  treasured  past,  we  shall  not 

cease  recall, 
Till  ourselves  shall  clasp  in  close  embrace  the  mother 

of  us  all ! 

And  to  all  else  we  give  pause  to-day,  that  vernal 

flowers  may  bloom 
In    a    superadded    beauty  on   the    patriot's   early 

tomb; 


322  POEMS. 

And  we  gather  'neath  these  fresh-clad  boughs,  that, 

vocal  as  of  yore, 
Now  repeat  JEolian  dirges  for  the  brave  that  are  no 

more! 

Nor  with  us  alone  to-day  do  scarred  and  shattered 

forms  attend, 
"Where  the  voices,  sweet  at  once,  and  sad,  of  grateful 

memory  blend ; 
For  in  all  the  land,  from  Kennebec  to  Mississippi's 

shore, 
Do  the  roses  shed  their  fragrance  for  the  brave  that 

are  no  more. 

And  by  many  a  widowed  hand  to-day,  in  mansion 

and  in  cot, 
Hath  been  twined  the  fair   anemone   with   sweet 

forget-me-not ; 
And  in  many  a  nameless  orphan-girl  hath  'wakened 

proud  desire, 
To  assert,  in  this  mute  eloquence,  the  valor  of  her 

sire! 

O !  the  wealth  of  buried  heroes  that  our  nation  boasts 

to-day, — 
In  the  soil  where  we  were  nurtured,  on  the  prairies 

far  away, — 


POEM.  323 

In  the  town  and  in  the  hamlet,  and  by  every  moun- 
tain side, 

They  are  sleeping  'neath  the  altars  for  whose  sanc- 
tity they  died. 

But,  my  comrades,  we  would  ne'er  forget,  nor  could 

we  if  we  would, 
What   a  multitude    unnumbered    of    our    glorious 

brotherhood 
Are     asleep    in     rude,    unnoticed,    undiscoverable 

graves, 
In  the  regions  that  the  Cumberland  or  Mississippi 

laves ; 

In  the  lone  graves,  hollowed  darkly,  where  the  camp- 
fires  dared  not  burn, 

And  by  hands  that  on  the  morrow  should  be  lifeless 
in  their  turn ; 

Or  in  trenches,  where  in  hot  haste,  when  the  bat- 
tle's rage  was  spent, 

Horse  and  rider,  friend  and  foeman,  in  red  burial 
were  blent ! 

Little  dreamed  he,  youth  ingenuous  of  twenty  years 

ago, 
Gazing  out    upon    a    future   with    auroral  hopes 

aglow, 


324  POEMS. 

Thinking  only  of  a  life-work,  o'er  which  Peace  her 

rays  should  shed, 
And  of  Death,  beside  the  hearth-stone — children's 

faces  round  his  bed  ;— 

Little  dreamed  he,  little  dreamed  ye,  who  had  known 

him  as  ye  thought, 
How  much  God-like  and  heroic  in  his  nature  was 

inwrought, 
Which  occasion  should  enkindle,  till  from  mean  and 

trivial  things, 
He  should  rise  to  deeds  that  challenge  envy  in  the 

breasts  of  kings ! 

Thus  we  sometimes  may  discover,  how,  while  prison- 
ers of  time, 

From  resources  deep  within  us,  we  can  make  our 
lives  sublime ; 

And  we  see,  although  but  darkly,  and  with  dim  and 
finite  eye, 

"When  this  chrysalism  endeth,  what  we  may  be  by- 
and-by ! 

Let  them  sleep,  those  nameless  heroes,  where  so  gal- 
lantly they  fell, 

Where  I  seem  to  see  the  wild-flower  bloom,  their 
resting  place  to  tell ; 


POEM.  325 

Where  the  earth,  enriched  with  noble  blood,  seems 
dressed  in  brighter  green, 

And  our  thoughts  in  ghostly  forms  to-day,  are  hover- 
ing o'er  the  scene ! 

And  the  wild-birds  sing  their  requiem  above  their 
lowly  graves, 

And  the  sad  magnolia,  weeping  there,  its  solemn 
branches  waves ; 

And  the  voices,  inarticulate,  of  Nature's  choir,  de- 
clare 

That  the  soil  around  is  hallowed  ground,  for  the 
warrior  dead  are  there  ! 

Let  them  sleep,  while  roll  the  centuries  in  ceaseless 
tide  away, 

Till  at  last  the  grand  Reveille  sounds  to  usher  in  the 
day, 

When  the  whole  of  Earth's  Grand  Army  shall  be- 
take them  to  their  rest, 

With  the  armies  that  encamp  around  the  cities  of 
the  blest ! 

Let  this  hour  repeat  the  lesson — ever  old,  yet  ever 

new, — 
That  at  best  we  are  but  shadows,  and  what  shadows 

vie  pursue. 


326  POEM& 

What  are  we  among  the  millions  of  the  universal 
spheres, 

That  are  going  and  are  coming,  through  the  wilder- 
ness of  years  ? 

Here  to-day,  the  waves  of  Lethe  we  would  glaglly 

hold  in  thrall, 
But  its  dark,  oblivious  waters,  must  ere  long  engulf 

us  all ; 
And  our  story  in  the  distant  future  ages  shall  be 

told, 
As  we  tell  of  Babylonians,  and  Babylon,  of  old ! 

Yet  we  know  there  are  implanted  deep  in  every  hu- 
man breast, 

Germs  of  noble  aspiration,  and  mysterious  unrest. 

The  economy  that  shapes  the  orbs,  yet  notes  the 
sparrow's  fall, 

In  the  everlasting  Drama,  hath  a  part  for  each  and 
all. 

After  all,  then,  life  is  earnest,  and  in  life's  severe  re- 
view, 

Many  years  do  not  so  signify,  as  what  we  are,  and  do ; 

For  the  years  are  oft-times  squandered,  gathering 
shells  along  the  shore, 

While  the  ocean,  undiscovered,  lies  in  vastness  just 
before. 


POEM.  327 

These  our  heroes,  who  thus  early  sleep  beneath  the 

silent  sod, 

Have  lived  longer,  as  I  reckon  the  arithmetic  of  God, 
Than  the  selfish  one,  whose  days  have  eked  out  life's 

extremest  span, 
Yet  who  never  was  accounted,  and  who  never  was, 

a  man. 

Do  not  mourn,  O  stricken  widow ;  do  not  mourn,  be- 
reaved sire, 

For  the  loved  one,  swift-ascended,  pure  from  the 
funereal  pyre  ; 

As  these  flowers  to-day  betoken,  scattered  o'er  his 
lowly  tomb, 

In  the  Paradisean  gardens,  evermore  his  soul  shall 
bloom ! 

In  the  lapse  of  generations,  we  shall  surely  be  forgot — 

But  I  tell  you  that  our  actions,  good  or  ill,  shall  per- 
ish not. 

As  the  stone  sunk  in  mid-ocean,  sends  a  ripple  to 
each  shore, 

So  each  deed,  once  done,  is  making  larger  circles 
evermore ! 

In  the  Registry  of  Heaven,  every  act  is  noted  down, 
And  for  every  cross  we  carry,  there  is  treasured  up 
a  crown  ; 


328  POEMS. 

And  for  every  noble  sacrifice  is  waiting  a  reward, 
And  for  each  courageous   soul,  the  benediction  of 
its  Lord. 

O  ye  shades  of  the  departed !  if  perchance  ye  hover 
near, 

Looking  forth  from  yonder  Heaven,  our  apostrophe 
to  hear ; — 

Tarry  not ;  we  bid  ye  rather  to  celestial  bowers  re- 
turn, 

While  we  only  guard  your  ashes,  safe  in  history's 
golden  urn. 

Now  from  these  sweet  ceremonies,  friends  and  com- 
rades, let  us  go, 

Somewhat  wiser,  somewhat  better,  and  with  hearts 
that  overflow 

With  a  love,  benign  and  catholic,  whose  promptings 
shall  not  cease 

Till  we  reach  at  last  the  Outposts,  where  the  coun- 
tersign is  "  Peace ! " 

S.  B.  S. 


HYMN.  329 


HYMN, 

SUNG  ON  DECORATION  DAY,   AT  BRIDGEPORT,  CONN., 
MAY  30,    1869. 

Air— PUETKL'S  HYMN. 

SOUND  the  dirge,  the  requiem  sing ; 
Floral  wreaths  and  garlands  bring  ; 
Scatter  roses  o'er  each  grave, 
Where  in  glory  sleep  the  brave. 

Passed  away  before  life's  noon, — 
Who  shall  say  they  died  too  soon  ? 
Ye  who  mourn,  O,  cease  from  tears. 
Deeds  like  theirs  outlast  the  years. 

Crown  the  sod  with  beauteous  wreath, 
While  our  heroes  sleep  beneath. 
Softly,  sweetly,  let  them  rest, 
With  our  benedictions  blest. 

Let  our  voices  hymn  their  praise, — 
Martyrs  of  illustrious  days ; 
While  their  spirits  hover  near, 
Pleased  our  grateful  song  to  hear. 


330  POEMS. 

Lord  of  Hosts !  whose  guardian  care 
Both  the  dead  and  living  share  ; 
When  life's  conflicts  all  are  past, 
Bring  us  unto  peace  at  last. 

S.  B.  S. 


POEM. 


331 


POEM. 

MEMORIAL  DAY,   BRIDGEPORT,   CONN.,   MAY   30,  1870,  AND 
AT    STAMFORD,  CONN.,  MAY  30,  1876. 

AND  now,  my  comrades,  faithful  still,  again  we  wel- 
come here 

The  saddest  and  the  gladdest  day  of  all  the  rolling 
year; 

And  come  once  more  to  decorate  with  sweet  me- 
morial flowers, 

The  early  graves,  the  honored  graves,  that  haply 
had  been  ours. 

The  grasses  thicken  o'er  those  graves :  more  thickly 

intertwined, 
The  roots  have  grown  above  each  form,  the  sacred 

sod  to  bind ; 
And  so  our  common  love  hath  grown  a  thing  more 

hardly  riven, 
And  sturdier  faith  points  upward  to  the  heroes'  rest 

in  Heaven. 

On  every  hand,  throughout  the  land,  with  measured 

tread,  and  slow, 
I  seem  to  see  our  serried  bands  in  sad  procession 

go; 


332  POEMS. 

And  yet,  not  sad ;  they  do  but  go  to  bid  the  roses 

bloom, 
And  plant  the    flag  for  which  he  died,  above  the 

soldier's  tomb. 

But  grander  army,  statelier  pomp,  and  spectacle 
more  rare, 

With  sweeter  strains  than  here  awake  the  circum- 
ambient air — 

Procession  of  the  memories — the  muse  would  lead 
this  hour, 

But  words  are  base  interpreters,  and  song  hath  lost 
its  power. 

And  yet,  as  one  some  tiny  seed  on  eager  soil  might 

throw, 
Whence  some  rare  plant  should  quick  upspring,  and 

into  beauty  grow ; 
E'en  so,  perchance,  some  words  of  mine,  almost  at 

random  strown, 
In  every  soul  may  help  beget  a  poem  of  its  own. 

We  say  this  is  "  Memorial  Day ;"  *t  were  but  a  lost 

day  then, 
Did  we  discern  or  heed  no  more  than  greets  the 

outward  ken. 


333 

The  scene  may  gratify  the  sense ;  grand  may  the 

pageant  be, 
But  O,  'tis  neither  all  nor  what  we  long  to  feel  and 

see ! 

Our  unobtrusive  place  in  life  we  each  resign  to-day, 
The  while  our  thoughts  take  rapid  wing,  and  beckon 

us  away; 

Swift  vehicles  of  memory  are  translating  us  afar, 
As  once  again  we  share  the  pomp  and  circumstance 

of  war. 

Once  more  we  wear  the  blue,  and  wield  the  musket 

or  the  blade ; 
Once  more  at  morn,  the  mounting  guard — at  eve  the 

dress-parade ; 
Once  more  the  drill,  the  camp-routine,  inspection 

and  review, 
Once  more,  at  break  and  close  of  day,  reveille  and 

tattoo. 

And  yet  once  more  we  hail  the  call  to  gallant  feats 

of  arms, 

And  gather  the  experience  of  battle's  fierce  alarms, 
And  watch  the  war-cloud's  awful  frown,  and  hear 

the  shrieking  shell, 
And  view  once  more  the  blood-stained  fields,  where 

cherished  comrades  fell. 


334  POEMS. 

Once  more,  sad  little  funerals  are  seen  to  wend  their 

way, 
As  one  by  one  our  martyr  boys  embrace  their  kin- 

cbred  clay ; 
Once  more,  by  night,  the  bivouac  beneath  the  starry 

dome, 
The   silent  prayer,  the   brief    repose,   the    wistful 

dreams  of  home. 

O,  tell  me,  in  an  hour  like  this,  in  what  o'erwhelm- 

ing  flood 
Do  they  not  all  return — those  scenes  of  toil,  and  fire, 

and  blood ! 
O,  as  we  enter  Memory's  fane,  and  tread  its  echoing 

floors, 
What  pictures  line  its  walls ;  what  spectres  haunt  its 

corridors ! 

This  day  is  theirs,  and  no  less  ours,  who,  from  the 

hither  shore 
Of  that  dark  Stygian  stream,  beheld  their  spirits 

wafted  o'er. 
The  dead  are  with  us ;  we  do  feel  their  presence  as 

a  spell ; 
The  memories  we  invoke  are  theirs,  but  yours  and 

mine  as  well. 


POEM.  335 

Nor  theirs,  nor  ours  alone,  who  did  the  brunt  of 

battle  bear, 
For  in  the  rites  we  celebrate,  yet  other  hearts  must 

share. 

Ah !  not  alone  by  those  in  martial  panoply  arrayed, 
Upon  our  country's  altar  were  the  sacrifices  laid. 

The  sire,  who  with  his  blessing  bade  his  boy  that 

last  "  good  bye ;" 
The  mother,  who  yearned  after  him,  as  he  went  forth, 

to  die; 
The  maid,  who  gave  the  honeyed  kiss,  as  bravely 

from  her  side 
He  hastened,  who  should  ne'er  return  to  claim  her 

as  his  bride  ; 

Or  she,  the  mother  of  his  babes,  and  partner  of  his  life, 
Whose  boon  it  was  to  bear  for  him  the  sacred  name 

of  wife; 
Who  sadly — oh,  how  patiently ! — the  weary  months 

beguiled, 
And  wears  to-day  the  widow's  weeds,  and  clasps  the 

orphan  child ; 

Have  these  no  part  in  all  the  scene  which  greets  the 

vision  here? 
Shall  we  not  hush  wliile  they  bedew  these  garlands 

with  a  tear  ? 


336  POEMS. 

Have  they  no  dear-bought  right,  these  sweet  observ- 
ances to  keep,—  - 

O'er  which,  if  there  be  tears  in  Heaven,  the  pious 
angels  weep? 

Alas!  dear  friends,  sad  thoughts  must  come  this 
hour  to  each  and  all ; 

Somehow  on  every  heart  and  home,  the  shadows 
seem  to  fall : 

Each  breast  some  missing  idol  shrines,  we  would  no- 
wise disown, 

Nor  with  iconoclastic  hand  dissever  from  its 
throne. 

And  yet,  somewhat  of  pride,  I  ween,  awakes  in  every 

heart, 
Which  feels  that  in  this  mighty  grief  it  justly  claims 

a  part. 
Some   Spartan  spirit  yet  inspires  :    some  patriotic 

glow 
Still  warms  the  stricken  breast,  and  bids  it  bravely 

bear  the  blow. 

In  years  to  come,  as  older  grown,  the  orphan  boy 

shall  read, 
How  in  some  grand,  terrific  hour,  was  wrought  some 

matchless  deed; 


POEM.  337 

O,  what  a  flush  of  filial  pride  his  radiant  brow  shall 

wear, 
If  he  can  say  to  all  the  world ;  "  My  father  perished 

there!" 

And  you,  my  comrades,  tell  me  now — how  e'er  your 
lines  be  cast, — 

As  life  is  short,  and  you  survey  the  record  of  your 
past;— 

Say,  is  it  not  the  darling  thought  in  grateful  mem- 
ory's store, 

In  that  our  country's  trying  hour,  the  faithful  part 
you  bore ! 

'Tis  seven  brief  years,  almost  ihi  *  hour,  with  some  of 

you  I  stood 
Before  Port  Hudson,  midst  a  sea  of  carnage  and .  of 

blood. 
A  chief  rode  down  the  shattered  lines,  and  kindled 

every  brow 
With  these  proud    words:   "Press  on,  my    boys; 

you're  making  history  now!" 

Thank   God!    that  history  hath  been   made;  and 

brighter  yet  shall  shine, 
As  consummating  ages  roll,  on  blazoned  page  and 

line; 


338  POEMS. 

And  mark  in  all  the  storied  past,  a  most  illustrious 

day, 
Whose  crescent  influence  shall  be  felt,  when  we  have 

passed  away. 

And  now,  dear  friends,  I  know  what  fond  emotions 
in  each  breast, 

At  such  a  season  still  remain,  voiceless  and  unex- 
pressed. 

Each  heart  in  all  this  gathered  throng  goes  some- 
where out  alone, 

And  seeks,  beside  some  single  grave,  a  treasure  of 
its  own. 

And  here  and  there  some  noble  deed,  some  few  re- 
member well, 

Whose  glory  passed  unheralded,  and  history  shall 
not  tell; 

Which,  done  by  some  pet  general,  had  handed  down 
his  name 

To  wondering  posterities :  so  dear,  so  cheap  is 
fame ! 

I  mind  me  of  a  noble  boy,  whose  mother's  sad  con- 
sent 

Enrolled  him  with  the  heroes  of  a  gallant  regi- 
ment ; 


POEM.  ggc) 

Dark  day  for  her,  bright  day  to  him,  when  that  ca- 
reer began, — 

Sixteen  years  old,  but  every  inch  a  soldier  and  a 
man ! 

There  came  the  battle  summons  as  in  hospital  he 

lay, 
Where  yet  the  fever  threatened  to  consume  his  life 

away ; 
The  army  moved ;  the  tidings  reached  the  sick  boy's 

ears  anon ; — 
Straightway  he  rose :  the  dangerous  way,  alone,  he 

followed  on ! 

There  came  a  call  for  volunteers,  with  musket  and 

fascine, 
To  first  assault  the  hostile  works,  and  fill  the  ditch 

between ; 
Whose  courage  in  that  solemn  hour  should  stand  the 

dreadful  test  ? 
The  roll  was  quickly  filled  with  names, — that  boy's 

among  the  rest ! 

Next  morn,  awaiting  hasty  rites  of  sepulture,   was 

laid 
A  row  of  heroes — stark,  cold  forms — beneath  the 

forest  shade. 


340  POEMS. 

Each  rigid  face  looked  heavenward  with  fixed  and 

stony  stare, 
And — saddest  sight  of  all  to  me — the  noble  boy  lay 

there ! 

The  blanket  in  his  knapsack  found,  his  winding-sheet 

was  made, 
And,  all  uncoffined,  in  the  trench  his  mangled  corpse 

was  laid ; 
With  reverent    hands  the  clods  above  his  lifeless 

form  were  pressed, 
And  so,  his  work  well  done,  the  youthful  warrior 

was  at  rest ! 

Above  his  dust  the  stranger  treads  to-day,  and  heed- 

eth  not ; 
I  know  in  all  that  lonely  waste  I  could  not  find  the 

spot; 
Yet,  unforgetful  of  the  life  that  boy  his  country 

gave, 
I  tell  you,  here  and  now  I  place  a  wreath  upon  his 

grave! 

So,  each  and  all,  bring  flowers,  bring  flowers,  whose 

perfume  shall  arise 
From  graves  of  heroes  near  and  far,  to  scent  the  very 

skies. 


M T  AMANUENSIS.  341 

Where  these  our  dead  do  live  again,  and  keep  their 

blest  abodes, 
And  smiling  Hebe  serves  for  them  the  banquet  of 

the  gods. 

S.  B.  S. 


MY  AMANUENSIS. 

INSCRIBED    TO  MISS  LIZZIE  HAND. 

A  HANDSOME  maiden  here  at  my  right  hand, 
A  sonnet  for  her  album  doth  command. 
She's  trebly  handsome ; — for,  you  understand — 
She  writes,  and  has,  and  is,  a  handsome  Hand. 
To  phrase  it  handsome  ; — handsome  little  "  Liz  " 
Not  only  handsome  does,  but  handsome  is. 

S.  B.  S. 


342  POEMS. 


SUNKISE  FKOM  THE  SIEKEAS. 

THE  gentle  lustre  of  the  morning  star, — 

The  sweet  submission  in  its  fading  rays 
The  rising  radiance  of  the  golden  bar, 

The  eastern  sky  in  grayish  fields  displays  : 
The  leaping  up  from  some  great  sea  of  fire, 

Of  mighty  lances  of  resistless  light, — 
Betokening  the  Da3r-King's  fierce  desire, 

"With  martial  pomp  to  slay  the  hosts  of  night ! 

C.  A.  S. 


FAREWELL  HYMN,  343 


FAREWELL  HYMN  TO  REV.  J.  B.  F . 

SUNG    BY  SUNDAY  SCHOLARS,  CHBIST    CHURCH,   BRIDGE- 
PORT,  CONN.,  APRIL  17,   1870. 

Tun»—  SWEET  HOUB  OF  PBATEB. 

FAREWELL  !  sad  word  repeated  oft, 

As  through  life's  pilgrimage  we  wend ; 
Farewell !  kind  guardian  of.  our  souls, 

Beloved  Pastor,  guide  and  friend. 
Our  infant  voices  gladly  join 

In  grateful  blessings,  ere  we  part ; 
And  bid  thee  bear  to  other  scenes, 

The  thankful  tribute  of  each  heart. 

Thy  faithful  toil  through  all  the  years 

Here  in  thy  Master's  vineyard  spent, 
This  hour  we  linger  to  recall, 

With  sad  and  glad  emotions  blent. 
And  thou,  where'er  thy  lot  be  cast, 

In  sweet  remembrances,  we  know 
This  consecrated  place  shalt  keep, 

And  us,  the  friends  of  days  ago. 

Farewell !  still  in  thy  Lord's  employ, 

Elsewhere  his  message  mayst  thou  bring, 


344  POEMS. 

And  other  young  disciples  teach 

His  grace  to  seek,  His  praise  to  sing. 

O  blessed  work,  and  workman  blest ! 
"We  bid  thee  Godspeed  on  thy  way  ; 

Glad  be  thy  harvest,  late  thy  rest 
In  realms  of  everlasting  day  ! 

And  in  that  day,  and  in  those  realms, 

May  we  at  last  together  meet ; 
And,  at  the  shining  throne  of  God, 

Pastor  and  flock,  each  other  greet. 
There,  as  the  endless  ages  roll, 

May  we  in  radiant  splendor  shine 
Among  the  jewels — ransomed  souls — 

That  deck  the  crown  that  shall  be  thine. 

S.  B.  S. 


HYMN.  345 

HYMN. 

SUNG  AT  DEDICATION  OF  JULIA  SUMNER  HALL,  GREAT 

HARRINGTON,  MASS.,  JUNE  28,  1871. 

Air—  GBEENVILI^E. 

Now  let  gentle  memory  lead  us, 

While  this  hour  our  thoughts  recall 
Forms  of  loved  ones  who  precede  us 

Whither  we  are  hastening  all. 
Weak  we  know  our  best  endeavor, 

'Gainst  the  Lethean  wave  to  strive, 
Still  with  human  fondness  ever, 

Would  we  keep  our  dead  alive. 

His  behest  this  hour  obeying, 

Who,  for  sake  of  memory  dear, 
Crowned  an  earnest  life,  essaying 

These  memorial  walls  to  rear. 
Thus  we  gather,  while  we  listen 

To  familiar  tones  of  yore, 
And  while  eyes  in  sadness  glisten, 

Here  to  glisten  nevermore ! 

Side  by  side  they  now  are  sleeping, — 
Sire  and  daughter,  in  the  tomb  ; 

Kindred  from  afar  stand  weeping, 
And  all  hearts  are  filled  with  gloom ; 


346  POEMS. 

She,  in  womanhood's  first  dawning, 
He,  of  ripe  three  score  and  ten, 

Both  lie  waiting  that  bright  morning, 
When  God's  own  shall  wake  again. 

'Neath  the  flow'rets  o'er  them  blooming — 

Summer's  verdure,  winter's  snows — 
Only  faith  our  souls  illuming, 

We  must  leave  them  in  repose. 
So,  wherever  God  shall  call  us, 

Wide  world  o'er,  our  lines  to  cast, 
And  whatever  fate  befall  us, 

Death  shall  claim  us  all  at  last ! 

Father,  sister,  our  sad  pleasure, 

With  fraternal,  filial  care, 
This  fair  cenotaph  to  treasure, 

So  its  walls  your  names  shall  bear  ; 
And  when  loved  ones  gone  before  us, 

Wave  for  us  their  welcome  wands, 
Each  and  all,  may  God  restore  us, 

To  the  "  House  not  made  with  hands ! " 

S.  B.  S. 


PROLOGUE.  347 


PROLOGUE 

TO  TABLEAU  OF  CAGLIOSTRO'S  MIRROR,  BRIDGEPORT, 
CONN.,  OPERA  HOUSE,   DECEMBER,  1873. 

KIND  friends,  we  bring  you,  in  a  waif  of  rhyme, 
A  curious  story  of  the  olden  time. 

Know  then,  there  lived  a  hundred  years  ago, 

Where  yet  the  Arno,  and  the  Tiber  flow, 

One  Cagliostro,  by  whose  magic  skill, 

Loved  ones,  and  lost,  were  re-produced  at  will 

Upon  his  mirror ;  which  he  did  contrive, 

By  sorcerer's  art,  to  make  the  dead  alive. 

Tradition  adds  :  it  pleased  him  to  discover 

This  power  occult  unto  a  sighing  lover,— 

Whose  mistress,  early  snatched  from  his  embrace, 

Among  angelic  beings  had  a  place. 

So,  one  by  one,  within  the  magic  glass, 
The  youth  beheld,  in  bright  procession,  pass 
Beings  divine,  recalled  from  their  abodes 
In  far-off  regions,  habited  by  gods. 
And,  one  by  one,  he  saw,  but  to  ignore, 
Until  at  last,  the  field  of  vision  o'er 
A  beauteous  image  moved  ;  and  on  him  shone 
A  rapturous  glance,  responsive  to  his  own. 


348  POEMS. 

No  more,  can  Heaven  itself  the  maid  retain, 
Whom  Love,  transcendent  woos  to  earth  again  1 
Mortal,  but  radiant  with  celestial  charms, 
Once  more  she  calls  her  idol  to  her  arms ! 

Enough  :  the  story  hath  been  briefly  told, — 
What  you  have  heard  your  eyes  shall  now  behold ! 

S.  B.  S. 


POEM.  349 


POEM, 

READ  AT  THE  OPENING  OF  THE  BRIDGEPORT  OPERA 
HOUSE,  DECEMBER  26,  1870. 

ONE  moment  let  the  play  abide  ;  for  'tis  not  meet  to 
hear 

A  stranger  voice  first  break  the  spell,  and  greet  th' 
expectant  ear. 

Would  some  more  graceful  song  than  mine,  its 
message  mi^lit  indite, 

To  bid  ye  WELCOME,  each  and  all,  this  glad,  auspi- 
cious night ! 

This  night  'tis  mine  to  speak  to  you  first  words  of 

joyous  cheer, 
Within  these  walls,  we  trust  shall  stand  thro'  many  a 

prosperous  year. 
Almost  we  know,  when  he  who  built,  and  we  and 

ours  are  not, 
This  temple  still  shall  crown  its  site,  and  beautify 

the  spot. 

All  men  are  builders ;  in  their  day  all  men  must 

builders  be 
Of  some  creation,  good  or  ill,  their  fellow-men  may 

see,— 


350  POEM8. 

Of  wood,  or  stone,  or  thought,  or  deed ; — some  fabric 

they  must  give, 
To  speak  for  them  when  passed  away,  and  their  own 

lives  outlive. 

But,  not  to  court  didactic  strain — I  deem  his  fortune 

kind, 
Who,  hence  departing,  haply  leaves  some  monument 

behind, 
Built,  not  to   crumble   o'er    his  dust,  apart  from 

haunts  of  men, 
But  to  present  him  where  he  wrought,  and  living 

still  as  then. 

So  I  regard  the  rare  old  man, — our  neighbor  and 

our  friend, 
Whose  lot  has  been,  amid  these  scenes,  these  fifty 

years  to  spend, 
And  now  on  soil  acquired  by  toil,  in  earlier,  lustier 

days, — 
Postponer  of  a  fruitful  life,  this  cenotaph  to  raise. 

Events  oft  happen  as  we  wend  our  way  along  time's 

shore, 
Which  bid  us  pause,  and  look  behind,  and  round  us, 

and  before; 


POEM.  351 

And  so,  this  night,  we  can  but  list  to  voices  of  the 

past, 
And  scan  the  present,  while  we  strive  the  future  to 

forecast. 

So,  with  our  aged  friend,  we  take  the  wings  of  mem- 
ory, 

And  almost  from  its  birth  o'erlook  this  nineteenth 
century; 

Behold  the  quiet  bay,  where  here  and  there  the  sail 
boats  glide, 

While  peacefully  the  hamlet  sleeps,  the  watery  waste 
beside. 

But  less  remote,  the  scene  is  changed,  and  now  the 

bustling  town, 
"With  marts  of  trade  and  numerous  spires  appears, 

the  slope  to  crown. 
On    the    horizon,    far  away,    the    eye    discerns    a 

speck ; — 
It  nears ;  the  NIMROD  !  and  we  see  JOHN  BROOKS  upon 

the  deck ! 

Again    the    panorama    shifts;    a    city  greets    our 

ken, 
With  freighted  vessels  at  her  wharves,  and  streets 

alive  with  men. 


352  POEMS. 

And  now  we  hear  the  engine's  shriek,  along  Pequon- 
nock's  shore : — 

George  Griswold  blows  the  stage-horn  at  the  Frank- 
lin House  no  more ! 

One  step — a  lapse  of  twenty  years — and  now,  upon 

the  green, 
The  massive  halls  of  justice  rise  benignant  o'er  the 

scene ; 
Excited   suitors  help  to  swell  the  bustle  and  the 

din, 
And — sure  sign  of  prosperity — how  lawyers  do  flock 

in! 

Nearer  we  come,  apace  with  time,  until,  on  every 

hand, 
The  palaces  of  industry — the  mammoth  workshops 

stand ; 
A    busier     aspect    everywhere    distinguishes     the 

scenery, 
'Mid  rush  and  ring  and  roll  and  roar  and  rumble  of 

machinery ! 

And  meanwhile, — we  begin  to  note, — arise  on  every 

side, 
Abodes    of    wealth  and  luxury,   magnificence   and 

pride ; 


POEM.  353 

And,  better  still,  abodes  we  see,  whose  plain  exterior 

tells 
Where  modest  means  keep  "  home,  sweet  home,"  and 

frugal  comfort  dwells. 

The  school-house  rears  a  loftier  front ;  the  church 

more  grandly  towers ; 
(I  say  my  prayers  at  old  St.  Johns ; — of  course  I 

don't  mean  ours.) 
The  Library  out-grows  its  shell ;  the  city  hall  looks 

gayer, 
It's  "  some"  to  be  a  councilman  ;  it's  famous  to  be 

mayor ! 

^Esthetic  taste  is  manifest ;  the  city's  pride  and 
boast 

Are  centred  in  the  loveliest  park  on  all  New  Eng- 
land's coast. 

Kind  charity  opes  wide  her  doors ;  the  orphan  need 
not  roam, 

Nor  widow  weep  :  here  each  may  find  a  haven  and  a 
home. 

The  alms-house  wears  a  winsome  look ;  and  often- 
times, when  floored 
By  impecuniosity,  I'm  wondering  how  they  board — 


354:  POEMS. 

Nay  more,  'tis  pleasant  to  reflect,  when  all  resources 
fail, 

And  worse  grows  worst ;  one  refuge  still — a  most  de- 
lightful jail ! 

The  city  borders  widen  out,  and  every  truant  son 

Who  sought  a  Fail-field  for  his  home — we  cap- 
tured eveiy  onel 

Our  Black  Bock  neighbors  deemed  it  first  a  chasten- 
ing from  the  Lord ; 

They've  now  some  sixteen  candidates  for  Alderman, 
First  Ward!* 

Across  the  harbor,  hope  deferred  long  saw  an  un- 
couth ridge ; 

But  now  it  bears  symmetric  shape,  and  Bridgeport 
boasts  a  bridge. 

Right  glad  the  muse  records  its  birth,  and  gives  it 
place  in  rhyme ; 

Long  may  ifc  stand,  and  long  defy  old  Ocean  and 
old  Time! 

Now,  shall  we  lift  the  envious  veil  wherethro'  we 

dimly  see, 
And  in  our  fancy,  picture  forth  the  city  that  shall  be, 

*Ailusion  to  annexation  of  a  part  of  Fairfield  to  Bridgeport. 


POEU.  355 

When  fifty  superadded  years  shall  shed  their  leaves 

and  snows, 
Still  making  the  waste  place  rejoice,  and  blossom  as 

the  rose? 

Well  may  we  hope,  that  long  as  Peace  shall  hold 

her  gladsome  reign, 
And  Industry  her  hosts  deploy  throughout  her  vast 

domain, 
This  busy  port,  so  close  beside  the  gateway  of  the 

world, 
May  write  "  Excelsior  "  on  its  flag,  and  keep  its  folds 

unfurled. 

Meanwhile,  as  other  structures  rear  their  walls  on 
every  hand, 

This  edifice,  unspoiled  of  time,  and  beauteous  still, 
shall  stand. 

Tradition  says,  its  site  was  once  the  dowry  of  a 
bride. 

We  prize  it  as  the  builder's  gift  to  us,  this  festal- 
tide. 

Here,  many  and  many  a  year,  as  generations  come 
and  go, 

Science  and  art  shall  prophecy,  and  wit  and  wis- 
dom flow ; 


356  POEMS. 

Here  eloquence   shall  charm  the   ear,  and  melody 

outpour, 
While  roll  the   seasons,  and  when  we   shall  tread 

life's  stage  no  more. 

For  so  we  go ;  our  life  is  all  a  drama  and  a  dream — 
The  muse  would  gladly  linger  still  to  dwell  upon  the 

theme. 
I  crave  your  pardon  ;  you  shall  see  blithe  Ida  Vemon 

soon; 
Years  gone,  'twas  my  delight  to  hear  her  play  "  The 

Honeymoon !" 

And  now — interpreter  between  recipients  and  giver — 
For  him, — long  life   and  walk  serene,  this  side  of 

Jordan's  river ; 
For  you; — with  patriarchal  love,  he  greets    your 

presence  here, 
And  bids  you   "  Merry  Christmas,"  and  a  "  Happy, 

Glad  New  Year!"* 

S.  B.  S. 


*  The  Opera  House  was  erected  by  the  venerable  Lewis  C. 
Segee,  present  on  the  occasion,  but  since  deceased. 


"  I  HOPE  TO  HEAR  SPEEDILY  FROM  YOU,  AFTER   WHAT 

I  TRUST   WILL  BE  A  PROSPEROUS  VOYAGE  TO 

.  AND  SAFE  ARRIVAL  IN  AMERICA," 


^2^^ 

IN  MEMORIAM.  357 


IN   MEMOBIAM  * 

O  PRICELESS  hours  were  thine  and  mine, 
Dear  Brother  !  in  that  far  off  land, 
Where  last,  together,  hand  in  hand, 
We  stood  beside  the  banks  of  Rhine. 

Together,  through  the  storied  halls 
Where  Art  its  lavish  treasures  brings  ; 
Amidst  the  homes  and  tombs  of  kings  ; 
Within  renowned  Cathedral  walls, 


strayed  ;  until  where,  grim  and  hoar, 
Old  Heidrlbrrg  its  tale  repeats, 
And  Neek.ir  aye  his  Brother  meets, 
We  parted,  who  should  meet  no  more. 

I  know  it  now,  how  I  did  yearn 

From  those  loved  scenes  to  bid  thee  come  ; 

And  o'er  wide  ocean  bring  thee  home, 

Nor  speak  "  Farewell,"  but  plead  "  Return  !" 

'Twas  all  unselfish  ;  for  methought 

How  unto  gentle  studies  wed, 

And  how  by  fine  ambition  led, 

Thou  would'st  not  leave  thy  work  unwrought. 

*  Perished  at  the  wreck  of  steamship  Atlantic,   off  Halifax, 
April  1st,  1873,  Albert  Increase  Sumner. 


358  POEMS. 

So,  tarrying  in  that  glorious  land, — 
Where  heavenly  music  seems  foretold, 
And  pours  its  floods  o'er  shrines  of  gold,— 
I  gave  to  thee  the  parting  hand. 

Since  then,  with  fond  fraternal  care, — 
Expectant  of  bright  days  to  come, 
A  throne  within  my  own  dear  home,— 
I've  kept  for  thee  the  waiting  chair. 

"Within  Westminster's  gorgeous  Urn, 
Last  litany  thou  didst  repeat ; 
Then  swift  foreran  the  message  sweet, — - 
The  harbinger  of  glad  return. 

Now  in  familiar  Minster  walls 
The  Organ  waits  thy  wizard  hands, 
And  tuneful  choir,  thy  skilled  commands 
To  hail  the  Easter  festivals.* 

My  God !  as  thunderbolt  the  shock  ! 
Too  well  I  knew  that  gentle  form 
Could  ne'er  withstand  the  furious  storm, 
The  frenzied  wave,  the  heartless  rock. 

*  Albert  was  returning  from  Europe,  to  fill  an  engagement 
organist  in  St.  John's  Church,  Bridgeport,  Conn. 


INMEMORIAM.  359 

I  madly  cried :  "  Can  God  be  good, 
And  grudge  that  little  meed  of  care 
From  His  Omnipotence ;  nor  spare 
My  darling  from  the  dastard  flood? 

And  He  who  walked  the  billowy  sea 
Aforetime  ;  and,  with  shining  hand 
Did  wave  majestical  command, 
And  whisper  '  Peace '  on  Galilee ; — 

Could  He  not,  with  benignant  arm, 
Uplif t  from  out  that  yawning  grave 
One  more — just  one — and  pitying  save 
That  tender,  harmless  boy  from  harm  ?  " 


'Tis  past,  and  I  am  calmer  now, 
As  here,  upon  this  moaning  shore, 
He  lies  so  still ;  and  bending  o'er, 
I  note  such  calmness  on  his  brow. 

And,  in  that  better  "  Fatherland," 
Faith  pictures  ALBERT,  disenthralled  ;— 
Among  the  heavenly  choirs  installed ; — 
An  angel's  harp  is  in  his  hand  ! 

S.  B.  S. 
UAUFAX,  N.  S.,  April  7,  1873. 


360  POEMS. 


THE  DIAL. 

WE  separate  ;  the  girls  and  boys  divide- 
Each  to  a  place  distinct,  or  quite  alone  ; 

Our  ruthless  passions  'neath  the  altar  hide 
The  sacrifices,  till  the  hours  are  flown. 

We  hear  by  chance,  in  a  far  distant  land, 

That  John  and  Mary  have  long  since  been  wed ; 

The  babes  we  left,  at  manhood's  portals  stand, 
And  ah,  God  help  us  !  some  sweet  friends  are  dead. 

Then  comes  a  flood  of  unrestrained  grief ; 

Upon  our  past,  our  common  hours,  we  dwell, 
Our  retrospect  is  cheated  of  relief, 

Remorse  encircles  like  the  flames  of  hell. 

But  Heaven  will  help  us  ;  as  we  meditate, 
One  star  sheds  comfort,  and  our  pangs  abate. 

C.  A.  S. 


LIZES.  361 


LINES, 

READ  AT  A    DINNER    OP    FAIRFIELD   COUNTY    BAR,  CON- 
NECTICUT, GIVEN  TO  CHIEF  JUDGE  ORIGEN  S.   SEY- 
MOUR, FEBRUARY,  1874.* 

[Judge  Brewster,  of  the  Court  of  Common  Pleas,  was  called  on 
to  respond  to  the  toast  "  Courts  of  Limited  Jurisdiction ;"  but  he 
said  Judge  Sumner  presided  over  a  court  of  still  more  limited 
jurisdiction  than  his  own,  though  it  is  one  which  Sumner  claims 
is  the  court  of  last  resort ;  whereupon  Judge  Sumner  responded 
as  follows  : — Bridgeport  Standard.} 

I  KNEW,  I  knew  these  lively  chaps  would   stop  at 

nothing  short 
Of  seeking,  in  this  dreadful  strife,  the  court  of  last 

resort ; — 
In  other  words,  the  court  that  waits  the  drainage  of 

life's  cup, 
And  then  inquires,  for  all  his  pranks,  how  much  the 

man  "  cuts  up." 

*  This  dinner  was  tendered  to  Chief  Justice  Seymour  on  his  re- 
tirement from  the  Bench, — he  having  reached  the  age  of  seventy 
years,  which — very  absurdly — disqualifies  one  from  holding  ju- 
dicial office  in  Connecticut.  The  Court  being  in  session,  all  the 
judges  were  present,  and  speeches  were  made  by  the  succeeding 
Chief  Justice,  Hon.  John  D.  Park  ;  Ex-U.  S.  Vice-President,  La- 
fayette S.  Foster  ;  Judge  Woodruff,  of  the  U.  S.  Circuit  Court ; 
Governor  Charles  E.  Ingersoll ;  Hon.  G.  H.  Hollister  ;  Col.  Nel- 
son L.  White,  State  Attorney,  and  many  others.  Hon.J.C. 


362  POEMS. 

I  tell  you,  when  you  probe  the  Court  of  Probate, 

you  shall  find, 

In  consequence  of  consequence,  it  isn't  far  behind. 
It  wants  a  man  of  parts,  be  sure,  to  understand  the 

rules, 
To  care  for  all  the  widows,  and  the  infants,  and  the 

fools. 

I  magnify  my  office,  then,  as  everybody  should, — 

And  say  that,  in  a  quiet  way,  I'm  doing  heaps  of  good. 

It's  all  the  speech  I'll  make  for  my  constituents'  dis- 
section ; 

You  see  it's  only  two  months  hence,  there  '11  be  a 
new  election. 

But  this  is  neither  here  nor  there ;  I  chiefly  rose  to  say 

How  pleased  I  am  to  meet  our  proud  Fraternity  to- 
day, 

And  help  entwine  a  graceful  wreath  around  his  hon- 
ored brow, 

"Who,  having  fought  a  noble  fight,  puts  off  his  armor 
now. 

Loomis  presided,  and  made  the  introductory  speech.  At  a  subse- 
quent meeting  of  the  Fairfield  County  Bar,  a  committee  was  ap- 
pointed to  publish  all  the  proceedings  in  a  permanent  form  ;  but 
as  the  committee  (of  which  the  author  of  these  lines  was  a  mem- 
ber) has  never  done  its  duty,  these  remarks  will  not  be  deem- 
ed out  of  place. 


LIVES.  363 

Thrice  blest  the  man  who,  counting  up  his  three 
score  years  and  ten, 

Presents  a  model  in  himself,  unto  his  fellow  men  ; 

And  in  the  plenitude  of  all  his  varied,  ripened  pow- 
ers, 

Beholds  a  gladsome  retrospect  of  unneglected  hours ; 

And,  gazing  forward,  can  discern  a  pleasant  pilgrim- 
age 

Adown  the  smeoth  declivities  of  a  serene  old  age  ; 

Assured  that,  when  his  day  is  done,  he  shall  but 
sink  to  rest, 

As  summer  sun,  with  all  his  radiant  banners,  in  the 
west. 

E'en  such  the  man,  whose  patriarchal  presence  here 
we  greet, 

As  round  the  festive  board  to-night,  his  fond  disci- 
ples meet, 

To  here  pronounce  o'er  him  our  benedictive  word 
"  well  done  ! " 

And  for  ourselves  uplift  the  prayer,  "  God  bless  us, 
every  one ! " 

Let  wiseacres  and  shallow  fools  deny  the  truth  who 
can, 

The  thorough  lawyer  can  but  be,  and  is,  the  tho- 
rough man. 


364  POEMS. 

What  cultured  gifts  must  all  combine,  and  in  his 
being  blend, 

Not  all  mankind,  I  ween,  are  fit  to  gauge  or  compre- 
hend. 

What  arduous  toil,  what  anxious  care  ;  how  rigorous 

the  school 
Wherein  our  jealous  mistress  holds  us  subject  to  her 

rule, 
Is  ours,  who  strive  our  best  within  this  sphere  of  life 

to  go, 
Let  those,  and  those  alone,  recount,  who  best  can 

feel  and  know. 

I've  made  a  brief  upon  this  point ;  and  from  statis- 
tics, say — 

The  lawyers,  of  professionals,  do  most  for  smallest 
pay. 

The  average  lawyer — overhaul  the  record,  and  be 
sure — 

Works  always  hard, — lives  pretty  well, — and  goes  to 
Heaven,  poor. 

And  yet  we  lead  a  pleasant  life ;  the  company  is 
good, 

And  gentle  fellowship  obtains  within  our  brother- 
hood. 


LINES.  365 

Exceptions  but  confirm  the  rule  ;  and,  take  us  all 

together, 
A  nobler  band,  I  dare  declare,  were  never  bound  by 

tether. 

And  all  the  world,  whate'er  it  says,  respects  the  le- 
gal calling, 

And  must  confess,  that  but  for  us,  its  state  would  be 
appalling ; 

The  very  man  who  finds  in  our  pursuit  the  biggest 
flaw, 

If  he  can  boast  a  boy  with  brains,  will  have  him 
study  law ! 

My  time  is  up, — a  health  to  all ;  and  unto  him  ere- 

while 
Our  honored  chief  ;  who  now  returns  to  join  the  rank 

and  file, — 
Long  lif  e ; — and  when  in  heavenly  courts  he  stands  at 

last,  be  then 
His  children's  children's  proudest  boast — illustrious 

ORIGEN  ! 

S.  B.  S. 


366  POEMS. 

POEM, 

BEAD  AT  A  DINNEB  GIVEN  TO  P.  T.  BARNUM,  AT  ATLANTIC 
HOTEL,  BBIDGEPOBT,  CONN.,  1874 

I'M  no  pianist ;  ne'ertheless  a  paean  I  must  sing 
This  night  in  honor  of  our  guest,  the  famous  Money 

King; 
The  man  who  keeps  informing  us  that  poverty's  a 

blunder, 
And  rolls  up  wealth  before  our  eyes,  while  we  look 

on  and  wonder. 

If  Alfred  Mantalini  could  have  chanced  this  man 

to  see, 

His  first  ejaculation  must  have  been,  as  you'll  agree, 
"  Of  all  demnition  wonderments  that  swell  his  fame 

and  pelf, 
There  never  was  a  demnder  one  than  Barnum  is, 

himself!" 

There's  no  such  thing  as  ciphering  the  gauge  of  such 

a  man; 
To-day  its  business  in  New  York — to-morrow  in 

Japan  : 
One  day  beneath  the  sea,  to  find  some  learned,  lovely 

shark, — 
The  next,  way  off,  on  Ararat,  for  pieces  of  the  Ark  I 


POEM.  367 

Sometimes  he  calls  for  quarter,  with  the  giant  Fe- 

Fo-Fiim  ; 
And  then  again  he  captures  us  with  General  Tom 

Thumb; 
One  day  in  Bridgeport,  staking  out  new  streets  across 

his  farm, 
The  next,  in  Windsor  Castle,  with  Victoria  on  his  arm. 

One  day  upon  the  prairies,  looking  out  for  freaks  of 
nature ; 

The  next,  in  Hartford,  speech-making  before  the 
legislature ; 

One  day,  the  Bearded  Woman ;  next,  the  Mermaid 
with  her  comb  ; 

And  now,  the  Hippopotamus,  and  now,  the  Hippo- 
drome. 

To-day,  recalling  from  the  deep,  oblivious  shades  of 

death, 

And  so,  rejuvenating  and  rejoicing  old  Joyce  Heth ; 
To-morrow,  showing  all  at  once,  the  wondrous  twins 

of  Siam, 
And  Julius  Caesar's  boxing-gloves,  and  fish-pole  used 

by  Priam. 

One  day,  the  fiery  element  his  big  Museum  slashes, 
But  next  day,  lo  I  it  rises  as  a  Phoenix  from  its  ashes ; 


368  POEMS. 

And  while  the  croakers  shake  their  heads,  and  dubi- 
ously figure, 

The  Crocodile  gives  broader  smile, — the  show  keeps 
growing  bigger! 

I  never,  NEVER,  saw  his  like  ;  and  so  I  might  as  well 
Give  o'er  at  once  the  vain  attempt  all  his  exploits  to 

tell; 
It's    all    recorded — read    of     all — on    everybody's 

shelf ; 

"  Biography  of  P.  T.  Barnum,  written  by  him- 
self." 

There's  not  a  journal  round  the  world,  whose  col- 
umns haven't  known  him ; 

Nor  board-fence,  on  whose  superfice,  bill-posters 
haven't  shown  him. 

No  savage  or  philosopher ;  no  Gentile,  Greek  or 
Roman, 

But  knows  of  this  ubiquitous,  inevitable  showman. 

But  "  showman  "  though  he  style  himself,  we  know 

the  word  but  tells 
A  vulgar  fraction  of  what  force  within  his  manhood 

dwells. 

An  orator  of  wide  repute,  a  poet  and  a  preacher, 
An  author  and  an  editor  ;  a  student  and  a  teacher ; 


POEM.  369 

A  wit,  of  never  failing  fund  within  his  storehouse 
ample ; 

Of  Temperance,  alike  renowned  Apostle  and  ex- 
ample ; 

Philanthropist,  with  human  kind,  not  merely  sym- 
pathetic, 

But  generous  and  bountiful,  and  grandly  ener- 
getic ; 

And  last — by  no  means  least — of  all ; — and  that  is 

why  we  come 
Thus  heartily  to    welcome    him — a    lover    of    his 

home; 
A  home  that  proudly  crowns  to-day  a  whilom  barren 

waste, — 
The  triumph  and  the  marvel  now  of  fine  aesthetic 

taste. 

But  prouder  monument  for  him  ;  within  the  city's 

bound, 
Full  many   a   score  of  happy  habitations  may  be 

found, 
Whose  owners  will  not  soon  forget  the  prudent  head 

that  planned 
The  homes  they  ne'er  had  builded,  but  for  Barnum's 

helping  hand ! 


370  POEMS. 

Oh  !  when  the  leaf  of  human  life  is  turning  sere  and 

yellow. 
One's  best  reflection  can  but  be,  that  he  has  served 

his  fellow. 
How  many  a  man  had  been  a  wreck,  whose  fate  had 

quite  undone  him, 
If  Barnum  hadn't  raised,  and  put  wheels  under  him, 

and  "  run  "  him  ! 

Now    if    our   fellow-citizen    had    been    a    sordid 

hunks, 
Who  hoarded  all  his  treasures  in  old  stockings,  and 

in  trunks, 
We  simply  should  have  set  him  down  a  flinty-hearted 

sinner, 
Instead  of  voting  him  a  "  brick  "  and  complimental 

dinner. 

And  so  we  wish  it  understood,  and  thoroughly  in- 
ferred ; — 

These  testimonials  of  esteem — we  mean  them,  every 
word. 

We  toast  not  wealth,  nor  simply  brains  ;  but,  as  we 
proudly  can, — 

The  qualities  that  always  make  the  hero  and  the 
man. 


AN 

UK 


POEM. 


Long  life  and  health  to  him   and  his,  to  do  and 

gather  good ; 
And  when  at  last  he  shall  be   called  to  cross  the 

Stygian  flood, 
Surviving  friends  with  tearful  eyes,  beholding  him 

embark, 
Shall  place  his  statue,  I  predict,  within  the  Seaside 

Park; 

And  every  boy  who  looks  thereon,  the  record  shall 

review, 
And  learn  what  steady  Yankee  pluck  and  industry 

can  do ; 
And  as  our  city  grows   apace,   an     ever  crescent 

fame, 
As  halo,   shall  surround  her  pristine  Benefactor's 

name. 

And  meanwhile,  he'll  be  ransacking  the   Universe 

for  "  stars," 
And  lay  a  cable  through  the   air  from  Jupiter  to 

Mars, 
And  institute  a  comet-race,   on  some   tremendous 

wager, 
And  cage  up  Taurus,  Scorpio,  the  Whale,  and  Ursa 

Major ; 


372  POEMS. 

And  hire  the   Twins — oh   Gemini  ! — to  manage  a 

balloon, 
And   make  an  exhibition   of   the  old   man    in  the 

moon; 

And  in  the  vast  arena,  pit  the  Sickle  of  the  Lion 
Against  the  vaunted   sword   and  belt  of  arrogant 

Orion ; 

And,  finally,  discovering  the  brink  of  Hades'  crater, 

Put  out  the  conflagration  with  his  Fire  Annihilator ; 

Exorcise  from  the  neighborhood,  the  "  cussed  "  imps 
of  evil, 

Nor  rest,  till  he  has  raised,  reformed,  and  then — EN- 
GAGED— the  Devil ! 

S.  B.  S. 


MARTYRDOM  IN  THE  TEMPLK  373 

MAETYKDOM  IN  THE  TEMPLE. 

A  BERKSHIRE  BALLAD. 

IT  was  the  town  of  Otis, — 

It  was  a  Sabbath  day, 
To  which  I  call  your  notice 

In  sympathetic  way. 

An  August  sun  was  shining, 

In  temper  most  intense ; 
The  clock  was  near  defining 

When  service  should  commence. 

At  chapel  we  were  greeted, — 

My  Brother  Sam  and  I, — 
With  courtesies,  and  seated 

Conspicuously  high. 

A  stall-pew  on  the  bow  aisle, 

Assigned  to  us  alone, 
Presented  us  in  profile, 

As  victims  on  a  throne  ! 

For  every  waiting  creature, 

Who  knew  the  native  sire,* 
On  each  resembling  feature 

Must  searchingly  inquire. 

Our  father,  Increase  Sumner,  was  a  native  of  Otis. 


374  POEMS. 

With  painfullest  reflection, 
Concerning  how  and  why 

"We  were  on  this  inspection, 
Sat  Brother  Sam  and  I. 

With  Corsican  refinement 

Of  mutual  sense  of  woe, 
We  kept  up  our  alignment, — 

Well,  how  I  do  not  know. 

But  there,  our  fate  bemoaning, 

We  silently  implored 
The  help  the  Hector's  coming 

Would  naturally  afford. 

And  when  the  aggregation 
Of  thoughts  we  must  defy 

Suggested  suffocation, 
Or  some  explosive  cry  ; — 

Bight  then,  when  for  the  Bector 
We  could  have  jumped  and  cheered, 

At  fartherest  door  a  spectre 
Obtrusively  appeared! 

Forthwith  our  whole  attention 
Was  conquered  and  converged  : 

The  act  of  apprehension 
Foregoing  fears  submerged. 


MARTYRDOM  IN  TEE  TEMPLK  375 

A  tall  and  slender  woman ; 

Not  less  than  seventy-five ; 
Who  looked  just  less  than  human, 

And  scarcely  more  'n  alive. 

She  was  so  slim  and  bony  ; 

The  blood  so  spare  in  her ! 
A  true  synchronous  crony 

For  the  ancient  mariner. 

Her  bodice  had  descended 
From  portraits  of  Queen  Bess  ; 

But  many  fashions  blended 
Throughout  her  satin  dress. 

A  reticule  of  netting 

Was  dangling  from  her  waist ; 
A  brooch  of  oroide  setting 

Kesplendent  gleamed  with  paste. 

A  climbing  ivory  jocko 
Adorned  the  shade  she  lugged ; 

And,  bound  in  red  morocco, 

A  prayer-book  huge  she  hugged. 

In  color  of  the  carrot, 

Her  ringlets  were  aflame  ; 
In  pattern  of  the  parrot, 

Her  nose  was  much  the  same. 


376  POEMS. 

Her  eyes  were  fierce  reminders 
Of  sprite  and  goblin  dreams  ; 

Her  glasses,  flanked  by  blinders, 
Were  cased  in  tortoise  beams. 

But  speech  seems  disappearing, 
And  memory  shrinks  with  dread, 

When  I  approach  the  gearing 
She  wore  upon  her  head. 

It  was  a  close-thatched  lean-to  ; 

It  was  a  prompter's  lair ; 
It  was  a  sounding  screen  to 

An  olden  bishop's  chair. 

It  was  a  miller's  crater; 

It  was  a  tavern  shed ; 
It  was  a  radiator 

For  gas-lights  overhead. 

It  was  a  Leghorn  tunnel, 

Resembling  in  degree, 
The  ventilating  funnel 

Of  steamships  of  the  sea. 

The  trimmings  on  a  fraction 
Of  that  stupendous  plan, 

Were  fit  to  cause  distraction 
In  simple-minded  man. 


MARTYRDOM  IN  THE  TEMPLE.  377 

Across  the  skull-close  bonnet, 

And  slightly  up  the  grade, 
With  spangled  gauze  upon  it, 

"Were  knots  of  crimson  braid. 

Between  these  cones  upspringing, 
"Were  grasses,  leaves  and  stalks ; 

Two  blue-jays,  couched  for  singing, 
Surmounted  hollyhocks. 

It  was  a  dreadful  vision  ; — 

Flashed  on  us  all  in  all, 
With  that  acute  precision 

Most  likely  to  appall. 

She  paused  a  moment, — blocking 

That  naiTOw  doorway ;  then 
Recovered  from  the  shocking, 

Our  woe  began  again. 

She  turned  her  awful  awning, 

As  she  advanced  apace, 
And  caught  us  without  warning, 

And  held  us, — face  to  face. 

And  drawing  near  the  pulpit, 

Her  calcium  lights  were  seen 
To  blaze  on  either  culprit 

In  incandescence  keen ! 


378  POEMS. 

And  when  in  act  of  kneeling, 
She  still  maintained  her  glare, 

We  trembled  ;  and  the  feeling 
"Was  not  akin  to  prayer. 

And  when  the  verse  for  quiet 
"Was  solemnly  intoned, 

"  Please  read  the  act  for  riot !  " 
My  brother  faintly  groaned. 

The  fire  of  our  affliction 

Abated  not  a  jot ; 
From  psalm  to  benediction 

'T  was  more  intensely  hot. 

Full  oft  a  spell  mesmeric 
"Was  fastened  on  us  twain, 

Till  on  the  brink  hysteric 
I  caught  my  reeling  brain. 

By  reverent  recitation, 
By  vaulting  tricks  of  thought, 

By  back  enumeration, 
Delivery  was  sought. 

Perhaps  the  earnest  struggle 
Had  braved  the  general  stare  ;- 

But  sacred  plea,  nor  juggle, 
Obscured  Jier  anywhere. 


MARTYRDOM  IN  THE  TEMPLE.  379 

Call  this  a  profanation,— 

A  mockery  and  a  sin  ? 
Retributive  temptation 

In  God's  house  will  begin ! 

Why  ended  not  that  session 

In  ignominious  race, 
Requires  a  deep  confession 

Of  mystery  and  grace. 

Who  e'er  in  judgment  sitteth ; 

How  far  excused  or  blamed  : — 
"  Survival  of  the  fittest," 

May  reasonably  be  claimed. 

C.  A.  S. 


380  POEMS. 


MY  BEOTHEK'S  KING. 

IT  glistens  not  with  ruby, 
Nor  flaunts  the  diamond's  glare, 
Nor  emerald  nor  sapphire 
Bedecks  the  ring  I  wear. 
Of  simple  gold  'tis  fashioned, 
And  on  its  sable  seal, 
The  family  initial 
Is  all  it  doth  reveal. 

Yet  not  a  gem  that  sparkles 
Afar  on  India's  strand, 
Or  blazes  on  imperial  brow, 
Or  proudly  sceptered  hand, 
So  precious  a  memento, 
So  priceless  boon  could  be, 
As  you  shall  know,  but  listen, 
This  bauble  is  to  me. 

Within  the  Palais  Royal, — 
For  seeming  miles  ablaze, 
As  fabulous  Aladdin's 
To  court  the  'wildered  gaze, — 
He  told  us  he  had  bought  it, 
With  reverent  desire, 


MY  BROTHERS  RING.  381 

To  wear  it  as  a  token 
In  memory  of  his  sire. 

And  so  he  kept  and  wore  it ; 
I  saw  it  on  him  last, 
As  o'er  the  keys  of  melody 
His  fingers  deftly  passed. 
As  rolled  the  swelling  volume 
Of  sound,  my  eyes  grew  dim  ; 
I  wept  to  see  the  signet, 
But  not — not  then — for  him  ! 

Alas  !  within  a  twelve-month, 
On  that  disastrous  shore, 
Whose  very  rocks  are  shedding 
Their  tears  forevermore, 
Brave  ship  and  base  commander 
Rushed  fearfully  awreck, 
And  fearfully  and  wildly 
Rushed  hundreds  to  the  deck ! 

And  shivering  and  shuddering, 
In  darkness,  cold  and  storm, 
Amid  that  doomed  assemblage 
There  stood  our  poor  boy's  form ; 
And  as  he  leaped  in  horror 
And  vain  hope  to  withstand 

ff  TTE 


382  POEMS. 

The  mocking  waves  that  clasped  him, 
This  ring  was  on  his  hand ! 

Far  down  within  the  caverns, — 
Drear  tenements  of  death, — 
To  note  the  last  pulsation, 
The  last  expiring  breath  ; — 
Forever  mute,  mute  witness  ! 
Thou  knowest,  but  dost  spare 
Those  tales — hads't  thou  but  language- 
Of  heart-break  and  despair ! 

Kude  hands  from  out  those  caverns, 
The  precious  corse  upbore, 
And  tenderly  disposed  it 
Upon  the  pitying  shore. 
Kind  strangers  and  survivors 
Saved  all  for  us  with  care  ; — 
All,  all  they  could — his  body, 
This  ring  ;  a  lock  of  hair ! 

The  months  have  flown  and  vanished, 
And  in  the  haunts  of  men 
I  move,  and  ofttimes  gaily 
Discourse  with  tongue  or  pen ; 
But  sadness,  like  a  shadow, 
In  night-watch  and  alone, 


MY  BROTHERS  RING.  333 

Unceasingly  steals  o'er  me, 
And  claims  me  for  its  own, — 

And  sometimes,  as,  abstracted, 
I  gaze  upon  this  ring, 
The  home  of  childhood  re-appears, 
The  scenes  of  life's  bright  spring : — 
Sire,  mother,  sisters,  brothers, 
Gone  hence  beyond  the  sky  ; — 
I  feel  we  all  must  meet  again, 
I  almost  long  to  die. 

It  glistens  not  with  ruby, 
Nor  flaunts  the  diamond's  glare, 
Nor  emerald  nor  sapphire 
Bedecks  the  ring  I  wear ; 
Yet  naught  so  dear  memento, 
So  priceless  boon  could  be, 
As  this  sad  tale  hath  told  you 

This  bauble  is  to  me. 

S.  B.  S. 


384  POEMS. 

POEM, 

DELIVERED  AT  THE  ANNUAL  BANQUET  OF  ST.   GEORGE'S 
SOCIETY,  BRIDGEPORT,  CONN.,  APRIL  22d,    1875. 

Now  I'm  a  Yankee,  born  and  bred,  as  any  one  may 

guess, 
Who  gives  a  moment's  heed  to  what  my  lips  and 

looks  express ; 
But  every  Johnny  Bull  I  hail  as  cousin — nay,  as 

brother, 
And  while  Columbia  calls  me  "son,"    Britannia's 

my  mother ! 

Indeed  it  makes  one  smile  to  think  how  races  sub- 
divide, 

And  seek  their  ancient  individualities  to  hide  ; 

As  if  a  hundred  years  or  two  could  so  outspread 
the  tree, 

The  branches  couldn't  find  the  root,  or  trace  their 
pedigree ! 

Each  son  of  these  born  Englishmen,  like  son  of 
mine,  must  be 

A  genuine  American ;  it  can't  be  helped  you  see  ; 

But  each  and  all, — we  still  may  trace  the  same  his- 
toric line ; 

Eecall  the  days  of  "  auld  " — and  not  so  very  "  auld 
— lang  syne." 


POEM.  385 

And   "English,"   "Teuton,"   "Scot,"  or  "Celt,"  or 

"  Yankee  " — what's  a  name  ! 
A  bridge  across  the  paltry  years,  and  we  are  all  the 

same. 
And  here,  according  naught  but  love  to  Kaiser  or 

to  Queen, 
We  work  new  problems,  whose  results  are  with  the 

Great  Unseen. 

So,  starting  with  our  brotherhood,  I  think  we  can 
agree 

To  quaff  the  cup  of  fondness  for  the  Isle  across  the  sea ; 

The  Isle,  whereto,  where'er  the  fifth  of  all  Earth's 
peoples  roam, 

With  faithful-  love  their  hearts  revert,  as  their  an- 
cestral home. 

The  very  "  hub  "  of  all  the  earth  ;  commanding,  as 
of  course, 

Centripetal,  centrifugal,  and  every  other  force  ; 

"  Whose  morning  drum-beat, — comrade  of  the  troop- 
ing hours  and  sun, — 

Sounds  one  reveille  round  the  world,  until  the  day 
is  done!" 

A  mound  upon  the  globe's  expanse,  which  other- 
wheres upsprung, 

Might  simply  have  supported  wives  and  saints  for 
Brigham  Young  ; 


386  POEMS. 

But  as  the  wondering  Frenchman  cried,  its  potency 

to  see,— 
"  Zat  leetle  patch  of  earth  is  one  vast  meeracle  to 

me!" 

As  empires  of  the  Orient,  her  history  fades  away, 
Far  back  among  traditions  of  a  half-forgotten  day  ; 
And  when  the  Sphynx  itself  its  hidden  story  shall 

unfold, 
Then,  only  then,  the  origin  of  Stonehenge  shall  be 

told! 

What  armies,  from  great  Caesar's  time,  with  awful 
tread  have  trod 

Athwart  her  soil,  and  fought  above,  and  slept  be- 
neath her  sod ; 

What  navies,  charged  with  thunderbolts  from  out 
her  flaming  forge, 

Have  borne,  transcendent,  round  the  world,  the  ban- 
ner of  St.  George ! 

What  Art  and  Science  in  her  halls  have  found  aus- 
picious birth, 

To  educate,  to  civilize,, and  gladden  all  the  earth; 

What  speech  hath  made  her  forums  thrill ;  what 
bards  sublime  have  sung 

Immortal  measures  to  embalm  for  aye  her  classic 
tongue ! 


POEM.  387 

What  monuments  on  every  hand  record    historic 

things  ; — 
Cathedrals,    builded    to    enshrine    sarcophagi     of 

Kings; 
Tombs,  so  renowned,  that  in  their  midst,  in  royal 

state  to  lie, 
What  Albion's  son,  but  craves  the  boon  deservingly 

to  die! 

And  statues,  that  commemorate  their  ever  deathless 

dead, 
And  castles  hoar,  with  amaranthine  memories  o'er- 

spread, 
And  palaces,   within  whose  courts  earth's  noblest 

ones  have  stood, 
And  towers,  whose  moated  battlements  have  soaked 

heroic  blood ! 

But  no  effete,  decaying  realm  evokes  our  laudful 

song; 
Within  her  bounds  to-day,  what  homes  of  wealth, 

of  comfort,  throng ; 
What  industry,  what  enterprise,   throughout    her 

pent  confine, 
Hold  sovereign  reign,  from  Isle  of  Wight  to  New- 

castle-on-Tyne ! 


388  POSM8. 

Wliat  commerce,  at  her  teeming  ports,  awaits  each 

fav'ring  gale, 
What  network  o'er  her  fair  expanse,  of  highway  and 

of  rail  ; 
What  bustling  cities  everywhere;   and  then, — the 

whole  to  crown, — 
Immense,  imcomprehensible,    bewildering   London 

town ! 

O,  whoso  in  a  single  glance,   and  in  a  breath  of 

time, 
Would  gaze  on  stores  consolidate  of  every  land  and 

clime, 
And  note  a  thousand  things,  his   every   school-boy 

book  recalls, — 
Ascend  the  dome,  and  reach  with  me  the  summit  of 

Saint  Paul's ! 

There,  rolls  beneath,  the  teeming  Thames,  by  mighty 

bridges  spanned, 
And  Ludgate  slopes  to  Temple  Bar,  and  Fleet  street 

and  the  Strand — 
And  just  beyond  is  Charing  Cross,  from  out  whose 

station  run 
Incessant  locomotive  trains,  like  missiles  from  a 

gun. 


POEM.  389 

Beyond,  the  halls  of  Parliament  and  Westminster 
you  see. 

There's  St.  James  Palace,  Buckingham,  and  Marl- 
borough,  all  three. 

This  way,  Trafalgar  Square,  and  Nelson's  Monument 
you  know ; 

There's  Picadilly;  there's  Hyde  Park;  Pall-mall 
and  Rotten  Bow. 

Come  back  by  way  of  Oxford  street,  past  Lincoln's, 

and  Gray's  Inn ; 
Again  you  near  the  "  City,"  and  you  catch  the  roar 

and  din; 
"While  now  and    then,  above  it  ah1,    mellinuously 

swells 
The  tocsin   of  the  Cockney's  soul — sweet,  musical 

Bow-Bells ! 

Past  Cheapside,  stands  the  Bank,  whose  notes  do 

not  belie  their  worth, 
But  speak  for  English  gold  in  every  corner  of  the 

earth. 
Hard   by,  Lord   Mayor's   Mansion   House  ;  and  in 

the  Mart  between, 
The    Iron    Duke     on    Iron   Horse,  o'erlooks  the 

whirling  scene. 


390  POEMS. 

And  here,  Cornliill,  Threadneedle  and  King  William 

streets  converge  ; 
Innumerable  multitudes,    like   waves   and    billows 

surge; 
And  rampant  men  and  rampant  steeds  contend  with 

mad  uproar, 
And  thunder  over  London  Bridge,  and  all  along  the 

shore. 

And  farther  east — O  let  us  pause  with  vision  rapt 

awhile ! — 
In  seeming  isolation  there,  looms  up   that   sombre 

pile,— 
Long  time  the  seat  of  kingly  pride,  and  kingly  lust 

and  power — 
It  stands, — with  walls  whose  very  stones  do  seem  to 

speak, — the  Tower ! 

And  now,  one  glance  on  Surry  side,  vast  workshops 

to  behold — 
Whose  myriad  chimneys  belch  their  flames,   and 

smoky  clouds  unfold; 
While  Crystal  Sydenham  illumes  the  far  horizon's 

crest, — 
Eesplendent  Diamond,   blazing  there,  on  Albion's 

buxom  breast ! 


POEM.  301 

There !  that  will  do  ;  and  now,  my  boys,  I'll  take  my 

seat  and  hat. 
To  sing  all  night,  I  couldn't  turn  a  neater  verse  than 

that;— 
Shake  hands  all  round !  bring  cakes  and  ale  ;  this 

once,  ourselves  we'll  gorge, 
And  give  the  tankard  one  long  pull,  for  England,  and 

St.  George! 

S.  B.  S. 


392  POEMS. 

LINES, 

EEAD  AT  RE-UNION  OF  CONNECTICUT  VETERANS,  AT 
HARTFORD,  CONN.,  1875. 

I  KNOW    precisely  what  you   want :    you  thought 

't  would  do  for  me, — 

As  being  what  we  lawyers  call,  a  sort  of  an  "  ex  re" 
To  hold  position,  by  brevet,  in  this  association, 
And  so  contribute  to  the  flow  of  mutual  admiration. 

I'll  do  it !  from  my  childhood's  hour — I  mean  since 
I  was  fledged, 

And  hung  my  hopeful  shingle  out,  seductively  gilt- 
edged — 

I've  always  said  "  give  me,  beneath  the  segis  of  our 
laws, 

A  first-class  client,  one  strong  fact,  and  I'll  insure 
the  cause !  " 

So,  hailing  from  the  old  Bay  State — God  bless  her, 
there  she  stands ! 

I  clasp  with  unfeigned  pride  to-day,  adopted  broth- 
ers' hands ; 

And  fain,  from  out  these  flowers  of  hope  and  memo- 
ry that  throng, 

Would  weave,  so  you  might  bear  it  hence,  a  fragrant 
wreath  of  song. 


LINES.  393 

But  where,  in  all  the  blooming  fields  of  your  illus- 
trious story, 

Shall  I  cull  out,  most  redolent,  the  roses  of  your 
glory? 

I  read  the  faithful  record  o'er  with  wonder  and 
amaze, 

Of  this  one  little  plucky  State  in  those  eventful  days. 

I  read  the  roll  of  martyred  dead  ;  and  in  the  fore- 
most van, 

Behold  one,  who  so  early  gave  "  assurance  of  a  man," 

Chivalric  ELLSWORTH  !  o'er  whose  corse,  with  new 
resolve  uprose 

The  warrior  legions  of  the  North,  to  smite  the  na- 
tion's foes. 

And  I  behold,  in  retrospect,  another  manly  form, 
"Which,  all  too  soon,  fell  prone  beneath  the  battle's 

angry  storm  ; 
The  gentle  scholar,  born  to  tread  serener  paths  to 

fame ; — 
But  brighter  halo  than  he  dreamed  encircles  WIN- 

THBOP'S  name. 

One  foremost  martyr  still,  our  verse  may  not  this 
hour  forget ; 

Whose  life-sun,  like  a  meteor  fall'n,  in  sudden  splen- 
dor set ; — 


394  POEMS. 

Of  simon-pure  Colonial  stock,  the  bright,  consum- 

matic  scion, — 
O,  favored  Commonwealth,  that  shrines  his  dust — 

heroic  LYON  ! 

To  SEDGWICK,  FOOTE,  and  all  the  rest,  whose  names 
to  us  belong, — 

Whose  lengthened  roll  transcends  by  far  the  limits 
of  our  song, — 

Not  unreinembered,  do  our  hearts  go  proudly  forth 
to-day, 

And  yield  their  throbbing  benisons  above  their  hal- 
lowed clay. 

Go  now  with  me,  where'er  the  shock  of  battle  rends 

the  air ; 
Aloft,  defiant,  you  shall  see  the  tri-vined  banner 

there ; 
The  first  unfurled  at  New  Orleans,  and  waving  in 

the  blast 
Its  saucy  folds  at  Bull  Run,  o'er  the  first  gun  and 

the  last ! 

The  first  on  Mississippi's  soil ;  the  first  to  kiss  the 
breeze 

Beneath  the  "  sacred  shadows "  of  the  staid  pal- 
metto trees ; 


LINES.  395 

Among  the  first  to  cross  Long  Bridge  ;  where, — al- 
most terror  dumb, — 

The  gentry  cried,  "  they  come ;  great  guns !  the  nut- 
meg Yankees  come ! " 

The  first  "  forlorn  hope "  volunteers  to  cross  Port 
Hudson's  verge, — 

Fit  honor  to  your  brave  THIKTEENTH,  and  gallant 
General  Birge ! — 

Nay,  first,  your  own  historians  say,  when  Richmond's 
flag  went  down, 

To  leap  triumphant  o'er  its  walls,  and  greet  the  cap- 
tured town ! 

O,  noble  record  of  a  State,  upon  whose  shield  be- 
fore 

Had  shone,  emblazoned,  deathless  deeds  of  patriot 
men  of  yore ; 

O,  Mother  of  a  glorious  race,  whose  loyalty,  the 
same 

Through  all  the  years,  could  only  add  fresh  laurels 
to  thy  fame ! 

And  now,  a  grander  spectacle,  to  all  the  earth  we 

show, — 
As,  in  the  peaceful  walks  of  life,  once  more  we  come 

and  go ; 


396  POEMS. 

Nay,  as,  once  more,  in  friendly  grasp,  fraternal  hands 

entwine, — 

And  whilom  foemen  gladly  meet  as  brothers  of  lang 
•     syne! 

The  dream  is  past ;  so  let  it  fade ; — the  hideous, 
dreadful  dream ; — 

The  night  is  o'er  ;  so  let  us  hail  the  morning's  rose- 
ate gleam. 

O'er  all  the  land  once  more  behold  the  starry  flag 
unfurled, — 

Whose  radiant  sheen,  now  all  undimmed,  shall  yet 
illume  the  world ! 

S.  B.  S. 


^v^_ 

POEM.  397 


POEM, 

READ  AT  SILVER  WEDDING  OF  HON.  AND  MRS.  WM.  D. 
BISHOP,  BRIDGEPORT,  CONN.,  OCTOBER  21, 1875. 

RING  out,  ye  joyous  marriage-bells !  ring  out  your 

silvery  chimes ; 
And  wake,  this  hour,  the  memories  of  other  days  and 

times ; 
Of  days  and  times  since  first  we   saw  this  newly 

plighted  pair 
Set  forth  together,  all  the  joys  and  ills  of  life  to  share. 

I  see  them  now ;  he,  freshly  forth  from  academic 
bowers, 

Aglow  with  hope,  alert  with  zeal,  assured  of  ripen- 
ing powers  ; 

She,  foreordained  a  heart  like  his  to  captivate  and 
win, 

By  charms  that  could  but  half  reveal  the  lovelier 
soul  within. 

It  was  a  gladsome  spectacle ;  the  future  seemed  so 

fair, 
And  life  was  all  rose-color  then  unto  the  youthful 

pair; 


398  POEMS. 

Yet  not    so  glad,   so  picturesque,   so   eloquent  a 

sight, 
As,  'neath  the  fav'ring  smiles  of  Heaven,  we  witness 

here  to-night ! 

For  time,  each  year's  development  so  kindly  did 
unfold, 

That  all,  and  more,  is  realized,  than  early  hope  fore- 
told ; 

And  bride  and  groom,  we  dare  to  say,  as  swift  years 
have  flown  o'er, 

Have  learned  to  honor  and  to  love  each  other  more 
and  more. 

We  know  the  charm  of  youthful  hope — I  mean,  we 
"  old  folks"  do, 

"Who,  five  and  twenty  years  ago,  had  found  it  "  sweet 
to  woo ;" 

But  Hope  stands  always  at  the  prow,  and  holds 
more  sure  command, 

When  brave  FRUITION  sits  astern,  and  lends  a  help- 
ing hand. 

The  youth  and  maid  could  promise  fair ; — of  course, 

they  always  do ; — 
But  time  alone  can  tell  if  they  shall  keep  their 

promise  true. 


POEM.  399 

Ah !  many  a  wedding  day  has  dawned  with  bright 

auroral  glow, 
And  been  the  prelude  of  a  life  of  bitterness  and 

woe. 

And  therefore,  with  enhanced  delight,  and  with  pe- 
culiar pride, 

As  five-and-twenty  years  have  sped,  we  greet  this 
groom  and  bride ; 

And  as  we  note  how  pleasantly  their  wedded  lives 
have  run, 

Pronounce  with  hearty  joy  the  benedictive  words, 
"  well  done !  " 

No  doubt  they've  had  their  small  disputes ;  no  doubt, 

in  their  dominion, 
They  each  may  now  and  then  have  had  a  "  contrary 

opinion." 
Mayhap,  as  somewhat  tardily,  some  night  he  did 

come  in, 
He  had  to  hear  those  dreadful  words  : — "  My  dear ! 

where  have  you  been  ?  " 

Perhaps,  sometimes,  he  thought  he  felt  a  spasm  of 
distress, 

At  figures,  for  what  seemed  to  him  a  quite  superflu- 
ous dress ; 


400  POEMS. 

But  when  the  fabric  was  made  up,  the  sum  grew  less 

alarming, 
And  he  was  ready  to  agree  "  she  never  looked  so 

charming ! " 

Such  conjugal  asperities  as  these  two  may  have  had, 
Have  evidently  left  no  trace  or  record  that  is  sad. 
Each  one  the  heart's  desire  has  seemed  so  nicely  to 

fulfill, 
That  while  he  seemed  to  have  his  way,  she  always 

had  her  "Will!" 

Ten  years  ago,  the  compliment  methought  exceed- 
ing clever, 

That  she,  a  fifteen-summers  bride,  was  "  handsomer 
than  ever ;" 

And  now,  she  is  so  very  old,  it  cStnnot  make  her  vain, 

As,  challenging  dispute,  I  pay  the  compliment 
again. 

Ten  years  ago, — ye  may  recall,  whose  memories  are 
not  dim, — 

Our  muse  embodied  in  her  song,  some  pleasant 
things  of  him. 

He  keeps  on  growing,  and  revolves  in  more  ex- 
panded ring, 

And  quondam  Railroad  President  is  now  a  Railroad 
King. 


POEM. 

Ten  years!  what  mighty  grief  they  brought  for 
some  of  us  to  bear, — 

But  they  have  left  at  this  hearth-stone, — thank  Hea- 
ven,— no  vacant  chair ! 

O,  sire  and  dame !  with  us  this  hour  recall  with 
pious  joy, 

How  through  your  ministrations  fond,  God  spared 
your  darling  boy ! 

And  now  it  but  remains  to   add,  in  some  befitting 

phrase, 
Kind  wishes  that  a  favoring  sun  illume  the  coming 

days; 
That  peacefully  and  prosperously  the  stream  of  life 

may  flow, 
And — in  the  self  same   strain  we   sang,   so   many 

years  ago — 

That— rarest  chance  to  mortal  lot;  still  let  the  wish 
be  spoken — 

The  silver  cord  be  loosened  not,  nor  the  golden 
bowl  be  broken, 

Ere  at  life's  even  you  shall  stand,  inspired  by  mem- 
ories olden, 

To  join  each  faithful  hand  with  hand,  in  nuptials 
that  are  golden. 


402  POEMS. 

And  when  the  promised  Bridegroom  comes,  O  may 

we  all  behold 
The  crystal  stream,  the  silver  thrones,  the  City  of 

pure  gold ; 
And  join  that  august   shining  throng,   before   the 

Great  I  AM, 

To  celebrate,  eternally,  the  Marriage  of  the  Lamb ! 

S.  B.  S. 


TO  A  LADY.  4Q3 

TO  A  LADY, 

ON  BEING  ASKED  FOR  ANOTHER  OLD-TIME  VALENTINE. 

WHAT  !  ask  a  Benedict  like  me, 
At  such  a  dreadful  lapse  of  time, — 

A  quarter  of  a  century, — 

To  string  the  olden  beads  of  rhyme  ? 

Indeed,  it  were  a  fruitless  task, 

You  know  not,  lady,  what  you  ask. 

For  I  am  older,  staider  grown  ; 

My  face  betrays  the  weight  of  care  ; 
And  close  beside  each  temporal  bone, 

Behold  the  streaks  of  silver  hair  ! 
I'm  sorry, — but  it  must  be  told, — 
The  dismal  truth  ; — I'm  growing  old  ! 

And  yet,  not  cold  ; — for  now,  indeed, 
As  on  thy  blithesome  face  I  gaze, — 

As  on  some  luminous  page,  I  read 
The  memories  of  those  halcyon  days. 

Old  flames  rekindle,  and  in  sooth 

I  feel  the  glorious  thrill  of  youth. 

And,  oh  1  how  gently  hath  the  hand 
Of  time  upon  thy  brow  been  laid ; 


404  POEMS. 

Bespeaking,  as  with  fairy  wand, 

Days  more  of  sunshine  than  of  shade. 
Thou  same  bright,  sparkling,  saucy  "  Joe  " 
Of  five-and-twenty  years  ago  ! 

Health,  wealth,  and  love,  and  .every  weal, 
Through  years  and  years  to  come,  be  thine  ; 

With  mellow  softness  o'er  thee  steal 
Anon  the  rays  of  life's  decline  ; 

Till, — this  thine  earthly  season  past — 

Thou  shalt  o'erlook  the  stars  at  last. 

S.  B.  S. 


LO  VES  BIOGRAPHY.  4Q5 

LOVE'S  BIOGEAPHY. 

JOHN  PRESCOTT  was  a  comely  youth ; 

The  type  of  health,  the  soul  of  truth. 

His  widowed  mother  often  sighed 

With  thoughts  of  woe  and  hopes  of  pride, 

As  sire  in  son  she  more  descried. 

And  oft  the  gossips'  chatter  ran, 

That  John  could  choose  when  once  a  man. 

A  hearty,  gleeful,  hoyden  girl, 

John's  pet  playmate,  Catharine  Earl. 
Next  neighbors,  and  alike  in  age  ; 
Taught  from  the  self -same  primer  page 
By  Catharine's  father, — saint  and  sage. 
And  each,  in  memory's  earliest  year, 
Had  followed  at  a  parent's  bier. 

And  every  tie  which  childhood  knows — 
Which  dearer  through  our  lifetime  grows — 
"Wove  friendship  for  this  lad  and  maid. 
As  children  they  had  often  played 
In  garden,  grove,  and  brookside  glade  ; 
Where  now,  beneath  the  moon  they  told 
The  never-new  and  never-old, — 
The  nonsense  lovers  will  repeat, 
And  think  it  quite  as  true  as  sweet. 

C.  A.  S. 


406  POEMS. 

POEM, 

BEAD  AT  THE  OPENING  OF  THE  NEW  TOWN  HALL,  AT 
GREAT  BARRINGTON,  MASS.,  JANUARY  5,  1876. 

DEAR,  gentle  friends  ;  dear  native  scenes ;  O,  how  I 
love  ye  all, 

Who  come  this  hour,  a  truant  son,  responsive  to  your 
caU; 

Not,  as  in  words,  just  fitly  said,  the  future  to  fore- 
cast, 

But,  haply,  here  and  there  to  catch  some  glimpses  of 
the  past. 

For  that  is  all  that's  left  to  me ;  indeed,  this  night  I 
seem, 

While  gazing  down  the  retrospect,  as  wakened  from 
a  dream ; 

Songs  of  a  dear  and  cherished  past  repeat  their  old- 
en strain, 

And  I'm  a  Barringtonian, — a  Berkshire  boy  again ! 

And  now — I  tell  you  plainly — if  you  wish  to  hear 

from  "Sam," 

One  thing  I  do  insist  on  : — you  shall  take  me  as  I  am. 
My  song  will  be  so  personal, — so  egotistic,  too, . 
Outside  reporters,  all  avaunt !  there's  no  place  here 

for  you ! 


POEM.  407 

Among  the  first   scenes  I  recall — oh !  forty  years 

ago — 
My  home  was  in  the  Chatfield  house,  within  a  half 

stone's  throw ; 

Where,  as  I  came  the  primal  facts  of  life  to  realize, 
The  General   Whiting  premises  allured  my  infant 

eyes. 

'T  was  quite  a  manor  in  those  days ;  around,  for 

many  a  mile, 

The  General  was  sovereign,  and  lived  in  fitting  style. 
The  mansion  was  historical,  and  grand  ;  but,  to  my 

gaze, 
More  splendid  seemed  the  carriage-house,  which  held 

the  coach  and  chaise. 

The  office  on  the  corner  stood,  where,  once  or  twice 

a  week, 
Came  suitors,  hot  for  justice,  at  "  'Squire  Kellogg's  " 

hands  to  seek ; 
And  there,  the  General,  oft  in  wrath  magnificent  to 

see, 
Taught  Increase  Sumner  how  to  grow  imperious  as 

he. 

No  railroad  separated  then  the  Chatfield  grounds 

from  these, 
But  high  board  fences  tried  to  keep  us  boys  from  off 

the  trees, 


408  POEMS. 

Of  whose  seductive  "golden  sweets"  we  all  were 
very  fond, 

And  now  I  just  recall  that  juicy  melon-patch  be- 
yond. 

But  to  explore  so  far  as  that,  required  exceeding 
care ; 

Not  all  possessed  the  hardihood  the  venturous  deed 
to  dare ; 

But  boys  are  made  up  variously,  and  thus  'twas  un- 
derstood, 

That  what  Bob  Girling  wouldn't  do,  "  your  uncle " 
surely  would ! 

Just  north,  with  Castle  street  between,  a  building 

used  to  stand, 
Where,  it  was  said  that  all  the  needs  of  life  were  at 

command. 
You  could  be  born  there,  go  to  school,  keep  store, 

learn  all  the  trades, 
Nay,  spend  your  evenings,  if  inclined,  with  lots  of 

pretty  maids. 

"  J.  C.  &  A.  C.  Eussell"  kept  the  store;  and  over- 
head, 

The  BEEKSHIEE  COUBIER  first  began  its  influence  to 
shed. 


POEM.  409 

Miss  Steward  kept  the  school,  and  culled  me  out 

from  all  the  boys, 
To  make  me  sit  amongst  the  girls.     (She  thought 

I'd  make  less  noise  ! ) 

Next  north,  was  "Major  Billy's;" — the  old  red 
house  and  the  well ; 

How,  in  my  mind,  and  most  of  yours,  their  vivid  pic- 
tures dwell ! 

And  next,  the  stone  church,  in  whose  rear  the  mead- 
ow lilies  grew, 

And  from  the  "  Hock-House,"  leaping  forth,  the 
brook  meandered  through. 

Across  the  street, — I  see  it  now — the  ancient  tavern 
stood ; — 

A  long,  broad,  low,  incongruous,  unsightly  hulk  of 

wood. 
I've  seen  some  architecture  since,  but  let  me  here 

declare, 
For  just  downright  magnificence,  my  boy  ideal  was 

there! 

I  wonder  now,   how  many  times,  how  much  I've 

longed  to  pay, 
To  put  that  structure  back  again,  for  just  a  single 

day; 


410  POEMS. 

To  wander  through  its  quaint  old  rooms,  its  corri- 
dors and  halls, 

Bun  up  and  down  its  creaking  stairs,  and  gaze  upon 
its  walls. 

An  old  sign,  in  the  garret  stowed,  the  information 
bore, 

That  "Captain  Walter  Pynchon"  kept  the  tavern 
years  before ; 

And  numerous  are  the  legends  yet,  the  fancy  to  in- 
spire, 

Of  scrapes,  and  jokes,  and  mugs  of  "flip,"  around 
that  bar-room  fire. 

The  timbers  proved  exceeding  staunch,  and  when 
George  Ives  appeared, 

And  on  the  spot  with  statelier  walls,  the  Berkshire 
House  was  reared, 

Dismembered,  rudely  quartered  first,  'twas  piece- 
meal drawn  away, 

And  here  and  there,  and  extant  still,  that  tavern 
stands  to-day. 

The  town-house,  in  those  earlier  days,   stood  up 

street,  o'er  the  bridge, — 
A  decent  structure  in  its  time,  its  white  front  crowned 

the  ridge. 


POEM. 

There  '•  Locofocos "  met  defeat, and  "Whigs"  went 

in  to  win, 
And  then  all  hands  shook  hands  again  at  L.  L.  Gor- 

ham's  inn. 

When  news  of  Folk's  election  came,  the  "Locos" 

to  inspire, 
They  jollified  so  strong  that  night,  the  town-house 

caught  afire  ; 
It  made  a  brilliant,  brief  display,  and  went  up  in  a 

flame, 
So,  down  town, — through  the  "  Locos'  "  act, — the 

hustings  locus  came. 

And  then,  above  the  Berkshire  store,  we  ope'd  the 
new  town  hall, 

And  had  our  semi-annual  vote,  and  famous  annual 
ball, 

Where  all  South  Berkshire's  "  chivalry,"  and  "flow- 
er," "eft/e"and  "ton," 

Were  wont  to  throng,  to  celebrate  the  birth  of  Wash- 
ington. 

Next,  when  a  noble  Christian  zeal  and  pride  would 
raise  to  God 

A  worthier  structure,  where  the  old-time  meeting- 
house had  stood ; 


412  POEMS. 

Become  the  town  house,  then  and  since,  the  venera- 
ble fane 

Was  scarce  vouchsafed  a  semblance  of  its  old  self  to 
retain. 

Somewhat,  I  know,  of  fond  regret,  in  each  breast 
woke  its  fire, 

That  morning,  when  the  old  church  bowed  to  earth 
its  battered  spire ; 

The  upturned  faces  of  that  throng  my  mind  is  pic- 
turing yet, 

For  each  bespoke  a  sudden  pang,  and  every  eye  was 
wet! 

Green  be  its  memory,  old  town  hall,  old  temple  of 

the  Lord ! 
Where,  in  my  first  years,  Parson  Burt  proclaimed 

the  living  Word ; 
Where,  all  your  days,  ye  natives  born,  ye  have  been 

wont  to  find 
So  much  to  feed  the  hungry  soul,  and  mould  and 

grace  the  mind. 

So  all  things  flourish  and  decay ;  yet,  all  along  the 

past, 
Mark  how  each  structure,  each  emprise  was  better 

than  the  last. 


POEM.  413 

Take  birdseye  view  of  all  this  vale ;  compare  its  now 

and  then  ; — 
On  every  hand,  what  monuments  to  dead  and  living 

men! 

The  church,  the  school,  the  library,  the  factory,  the 

store, 
The  telegraph,  the  railway  train,  the   bridge,  the 

teeming  shore ; 
The  very  water  that  you  drink,  the  very  gas  you 

burn, 
Improved  highways,  new  miles  of  streets,  bright 

homes  at  every  turn ; 

Your  model  Exhibition  grounds,  the  products  at 
each  fair ; — 

How  each  and  all,  and  more  unsaid,  would  make 
our  grandsires  stare ; 

And  now,  this  last,  not  least,  but  fitly  crowning  work 
of  all- 

This  TOWN  HOUSE,  builded  for  all  time ;  this  spa- 
cious, beauteous  hall ! 

*  *  *  *  * 

Here  let  it  stand ;  and  in  its  front,  upon  the  grace- 
ful slope, 

The  statued  angel  point  aloft  to  realms  of  radiant 
hope; 


POEMS. 

And  with  benignant  hand  the  while,  extend  the  lau- 
rel crown, 
As  tribute  to  heroic  sons  of  this  "  Great,"  loyal  town. 

Oh,  I  am  proud  that  I  was  born  within  this  lovely  vale ! . 
Some  roses  here  caught  early  bloom,  that  never  shall 

grow  pale ; 
Yet  every  elm-tree  bough  seems  like  the  willow,  as 

it  waves ; — 
The  town,  so  full  of  life  for  you,  for  me  is  full  of 

graves ! 

Go  back  with  me  the  dozen  years  since  I  had  place 

with  you  ; 
Where,  where   are  vanished  all  those  olden   faces 

which  we  knew  ? 
Long  roll !  it  sadly,  sweetly  ends  with  name  of  her 

so  dear, 
"Who  bade  the  world  her  soft  "  good-bye  "  with  the 

expiring  year !  * 

How  might  I  dwell !  No, — you  shall  see,  a  moment's 
space  beyond, 

CAMiLLAf  flash  her  glorious  orbs,  and  wave  her  glo- 
rious wand. 


*  Mrs.  Bigelow,  just  before  deceased, — a  very  benevolent  lady. 

t  Camilla  Urso,  who  followed  the  opening  exercises  with  a  con- 
cert. 


POEM.  415 

For  me,  almost  the  sweetest  task  of  all  my  life  is 

done; 
Now,  let  us  all  uplift  the  prayer :  "  God  bless  us, 

every  one ! " 

S.  B.  S. 


416  POEMS. 

LINES, 

BEAD  AT  BUBNS    FESTIVAL,  BEIDGEPOET,  CONN.,  1876. 

How  leaped  my  heart  within  my  breast ;  what  sud- 
den thrill  was  there, 

That  moment,  when  the  guard  cried  out  the  railway 
station,  "Ayr!" 

Bright  day  in  memory's  calendar,  in  that  refulgent 
June, 

As  through  the  flowery  meads  we  rode,  to  reach  the 
banks  of  Doon. 

'T  was  all  alive — the  broad  highway — with  vehicles 
which  bore 

Their  pilgrims  to  that  cherished  shrine  from  many 
a  distant  shore. 

So,  all  the  summer  days,  they  said, — and  so  the  re- 
cord told, — 

Came  multitudes  from  near  and  far,  that  valley  to 
behold. 

You  shall  find  valleys  just  as  fair,  and  flowers  as 

bright  of  hue, 
Amidst  familiar  scenes  you  take  your  daily  rambles 

through. 


LINES.  417 

The  Doon  is  not  so  proud  a  flood,  nor  can  its  "  banks 

and  braes  " 
Outrival    Housatonic's    shores,   or  claim    a  juster 

praise. 

There's  no  strange  beauty  in  the  bridge  that  spans 
the  rolling  stream, 

Nor  in  Kirk  Alloway,  rent  by  Time  with  many  an 
envious  seam, 

Nor  in  the  cottage  more  remote,  within  whose  hum- 
ble door 

The  eye  but  notes  the  circumstance  of  this  world's 
veriest  poor. 

What  magic  spell  pervades  the  scene  ?  pray  tell,  why 
gather  here 

The  lords  and  ladies  of  the  earth,  with  each  recur- 
ring year  ? 

Did  some  great  conqueror  drive  herethro'  his  char- 
iots of  war, 

And  pierce  the  air  and  rend  the  vale  with  thunder- 
bolts of  Thor  ? 

Did  some  proud  queen  awhile  sojourn,  with  royal 

retinue, 

Here,  by  some  castle,  knightly  tilt  and  pageant  to 
lew? 


418  POEMS. 

Did  some  grand  martyr  here  resign  his  body  to  the 
stake, 

And  make  oblation  of  himself  for  truth  and  con- 
science sake  ? 

Ah,  no !  a  simple  peasant  boy,  who  looked  with 
modest  eye 

To  see  grand  folk — now  all  forgot — in  stately  pomp 
roll  by, 

At  sixteen  years,  enamored  fell,  with  that  poor  peas- 
ant maid, 

So,  wrote  her  rhymes,  and  so,  thenceforth,  his  be- 
ing's law  obeyed. 

At  once,  a  new  inhabitant  of  the  Parnassian 
grove; 

At  once  a  genius  fully  fledged  ;  as  from  the  brow  of 
Jove 

Leaped  armed  Minerva ; — so  uprose  to  heights  of  in- 
stant fame 

That  rural  bard ; — and  EGBERT  BURNS  became  a  death- 
less name ! 

"  "Wild  boy  "  was  he?  'tis  true,  and  yet  'tis  idle  to 

ignore  it — 
That  bridge  is  now  a  famous  bridge,  because  Burns 

staggered  o'er  it. 


LINES.  419 

That  hut  belittles  palaces,  as  all  the  world  con- 
fesses, 

Since  Burns  had  there  his  babyhood,  and  wore  his 
swaddling  dresses. 

Ah,  well !  the  crowns  earth's  true  kings  wear,  are 
not  cheap  crowns  of  gold ; 

But  coronets,  bedecked  with  gems  and  jewels  mani- 
fold, 

From  regions  of  the  infinite,  no  vulgar  minds  ex- 
plore,— 

Those  vast,  illimitable  heights  that  sparkle  ever- 
more! 

O,  give  me  once  again,  this  life,  those  halcyon  hours 

to  spend, 
Where  waters  of  the  Bonnie  Doon,  with  Ayr  and 

Ocean  blend, 
And  on  that  simple  rustic  bridge,  to  linger  and  to 

dream, 
And  watch  the  tide,  and  lazily  throw  pebbles  in  the 

stream ; 

And  think  how,  century  agone,  those  precincts,  then 

so  dull, 
Became  so   classic   all  at    once,   of    memories  so 

full, 


420  POEMS. 

Because  one  simple,   truthful  soul  shed  glory  all 

around, 
And  made  of  unpretentious   soil,  a  very  hallowed 

ground! 

Then  look  upon  the  bridges  twain,  which  span  the 

dying  river, 
And  spake  in  words  the  poet  heard,  and  shall  be 

heard  forever ; 
Then  look  to  find  the  mystery  far  down  into  the 

well, 
Where,  as  the  poet  told  us,  "  Mingo's  mither  hanged 

herseF  ;" 

And  then  ascend  the  monument,  and  view  the  land- 
scape there, 

And  gaze  within,  on  "  Bobbie's  "Jace,  and  Highland 
Mary's  hair ; 

Then  to  "  the  Grotto  "  turn  aside,  to  see  how  "  Sau- 
ter  Johnnie," 

With  "Tarn  O'Shanter"  held  carouse,  as  nightly 
chum  and  crony. 

Then  once  again  remark  the  walls,  which  long  ago 

resounded 
With  roystering  Scotch  hilarity — "  confusion  worse 

confounded;" 


LINES.  421 

And  quaff  the  cup  of  "  mountain  dew  "  for  many 

glad  returns 
Of  glad  birthdays  and  memories,  to  glorious  EGBERT 

BURNS  1 

S.  B.  S. 


422  POEMS. 

POEM, 

BEAD  AT  THE  ANNUAL  BANQUET  OF  WILLIAMS  COLLEGE 
ALUMNI,  PARKER  HOUSE,  BOSTON,  JANUARY  18,  1876. 

Now,  this  is  rather  comforting,  ourselves  to  settle 
down 

Hound  Parker's  famed  mahogany,  in  famous  Boston 
town ; 

Admire  each  other  mutually,  and  keep  away  the 
chills, 

While  thinking  of  the  dear  old  home  far  up  on  Berk- 
shire hills !  , 

O,  how  it  must  be  blust'ring  there,  around  those 
classic  rocks 

Between  West  College  and  the  place  where  dwelt 
Professor  Cox ; 

Where, — even  now  the  very  mouth  of  smiling  mem- 
ory waters, — 

Those  buckwheat  cakes  were  handed  round  by  those 
three  buxom  daughters ! 

We  used  to  take  the  meeting-house  upon  the  leeward 

side, 
And  re-adjust  our  coat-tails,  and  a  breathing  space 

abide ; 


POEM  423 

Then  face  again  the  elements,  that  seemed,  with  wild 

uproar, 
From  IC  Snow-Hole,"  by  ^Eolus  sent,  their  fury  to 

outpour. 

It  may  seem  strange;  but  ne'ertheless,  I'd  rather 
nestle  here, 

My  time  of  life ;  and  feel  this  warmth,  and  share 
this  generous  cheer, 

Than,  e'en  for  once,  that  most  tempestuous  prome- 
nade to  take, — 

That  tri-diurnal  exercise,  for  health's  and  stomach's 
sake ! 

But  that  was  in  the  wintry  days ;  for,  when  the  ver- 
nal gale, 

With  perfumed  breath,  brought  newer  life  to  moun- 
tain and  to  vale ; 

And  Pisgah  answered  Greylock's  smile,  across  the 
gorgeous  scene, 

As  each  unto  the  other  waved  his  bannerets  of 
green; 

O,  never,  o'er  the  globe's  expanse — I  dare  this  hour 

declare, — 
Ye  brothers,  who  meanwhile  have  breathed  Italia's 

fragrant  air, 


424  POEMS. 

And  roamed  through  every  land,  in  quest  of  regions 

of  delight, 
Have  ye  beheld  a  spot  more  fit  to  ravish  sense  and 

sight ! 

But  truce  to  this ; — for  I  am  warned  to  leave  this 

theme  alone  ; 
So  many  sweeter  bards  have  sung  strains  sweeter 

than  my  own, 
About  each  precious  hill  and  dale,  which  to  those 

parts  belong ; — 
I  leave  them  all ;  they're  not  the  regnant  purpose  of 

my  song. 

I  sing  of  WILLIAMS,  now  and  then,  as  she  to  me  ap- 
pears, 

While  gazing  down  my  retrospect  of  almost  thirty 
years. 

A  drive  of  forty  miles  "  o'er  land  " — no  railroad  in 
those  days, — 

And  old  "  West  College  "  first  loomed  up  to  my  ad- 
miring gaze. 

Hard  by,  "  East  CoUege  "  stood,  and  "  South,"  and 

embryo  "  Lawrence  Hall ;" 
Observatories  twain  beyond;  the   "Chapel;"  that 

was  all ; 


POEM. 


But  no,  not  all ;  some  "  Domes  of  thought "  sent 

forth  their  kindly  gleam, 
And  in  their  midst — how  I  recall — MARK  HOPKINS 

towered  supreme ! 

And  there  we  had  our  daily  tasks,  our  daily  sports, 
and  there 

Professor  Albert's  "  conference  room "  echoed  the 
daily  prayer ; 

And  we  were  taught  in  gracious  ways,  that  we  can 
ne'er  forget, 

The  lessons,  come  whatever  may,  will  leave  their  in- 
fluence yet. 

New  halls  and  towers  have  risen  since,  their  lovely 
sites  to  crown, 

And  Williams  is  no  more,  as  erst,  an  isolated 
town. 

New  streets,  new  parks,  new  monuments  to  heroes 
old  and  new, 

On  every  hand  to-day  confront  the  old-time  stu- 
dent's view. 

And,  better,  all  the  fleeting  years  have  but  enlarged 

the  roll 
Of  men,  whose  mental,  moral  force  is  felt  from  pole 

to  pole ; 


426  POEMS. 

And  Alma  Mater  wears  a  bright'ning  halo  round  her 

head, 
While  multiply  her  honored  names — her  living  and 

her  dead ! 

Search  all  the  records  of  the  land  ;  scan  fame's  im- 
mortal scroll, — 

The  list,  unfading  through  all  time,  of  men  of  brain 
and  soul — 

List  to  the  Forum's  clarion  voice  ;  the  Pulpit's  thun- 
dering tone, 

And  strains  poetic, — household  words,  in  every  clime 
and  zone ; — 

Go  through  the  halls  where  Science  waits,  where 
Justice  holds  her  seat ; 

Where  Senates  think ;  where  scholars  sit  at  their 
Gamaliel's  feet ; 

Explore  each  field  of  Enterprise,  of  Valor  ;  Every- 
where 

Behold,  in  goodly  multitude,  the  sons  of  WILLIAMS 
there ! 

O,  surely,  Heaven's  blest  favorite  is  each  ingenuous 

youth, 
Who  seeks  within  these  classic  shades  the  treasuries 

of  truth ! 


POEM.  427 

Praise  to  her  Sisters !  yet  we  know  he  shall  not  else- 
where find 

A  MATER  aught  more  cherishing,  more  bountiful, 
more  kind. 

From  out  her  gates,  he  can  but  go  with  manlier  re- 
sol  vo, 

To  mingle  in  life's  conflict,  and  its  mighty  problem 
solve ; 

And  Memory,  as  the  years  expire,  wheiever  he  may 
roam, 

Shall  cherish,  with  a  fond  delight,  his  sweet  scholas- 
tic home. 

And,  by  that  token,  we  are  met,  with  greeting  to 

each  one 
As  brother,  and  our  Alma  Mater's  true  and  loyal 

son. 
So  may  we  meet,  in  days  to  come  ;  and  always  to 

discover 
New  jewels  in  her  radiant  crown,  and  evermore  to 

love  her ! 

And  when  the  next  Centennial  year,  for  this  our  glo- 
rious land, 

Shall  roll  its  round,  may  we  have  left  some  foot- 
prints on  time's  strand  ; 


428  POEMS. 

And  sons  of  WILLIAMS,  yet  unborn,  recall,  and  haply 

save 
Our  death-starred  names  upon  her  roll,  from  Lethe's 

envious  wave ! 

And  be  it  hers  to  gather  in  increasing  stores  of 

truth, 
And  flourish   in   enlarged  estate,   and    everlasting 

youth ; 
And  scatter  seeds  of  wisdom  forth  from  farthest 

shore  to  shore, 
Till  Earth  itself  shall  pass  away,  and  Time  shall  be 

no  more ! 

S.  B.  S. 


POEM.  429 

POEM, 

DELIVEKED  AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THB  SOLDIERS'  MON- 
UMENT, BRIDGEPORT,  CONN.,  AUGUST  17,  1876. 

OUR  hearts  are  full ;  Goddess  of  song  !  one  favoring 

glance  bestow, 
And  re-awake  the  slumbering  lyre,  and  set  the  verse 

aglow, 
So  we  may  voice  the  sentiments  which  to  the  hour 

belong, 
And  make  these  all-pervading  thoughts  articulate  in 

song. 

How  seeming  strange!  what  tongue  of  seer  or 
prophet  had  foretold, 

A  simple  score  of  years  agone,  the  scene  we  here 
behold. 

So,  like  huge  giants,  grand  events  do  ever  stalk  sub- 
lime, 

New  mile-stones  to  uprear  along  the  vast  highway 
of  time. 

So,  ever  on  the  world's  broad  stage,  the  heroes  come 

and  go, 
To  speak  betimes  the  needed  word;  to  strike  the 

needed  blow ; 


430  POEMS. 

So  monuments  have  risen,  and  shall  rise,  while  ages 

roU, 
Until    the  very  heaven  itself    shall    vanish   as   a 

scroll. 

So  history  instructs  us   all,  and  still  repeats   the 

story, — 

No  age  unto  itself  shall  claim  monopoly  of  glory. 
The  stern,  ambitious  centuries  shall  with  each  other 

vie, 
And  virtue  shall  not  cease  to  live,  and  valor  shall 

not  die. 

So,  these  our  own  experiences,  our  minds  do  but 

enable 
To  rescue  all  the  storied  past  frqm  the  domain  of 

fable. 
Who  doubts  to-day  what  courage  nerved  the  men 

of  elder  Borne, 
"Whose  very  eyes  have  seen  its  very  counterpart  at 

home! 

A  hundred  years — a  breath  of  time — have  passed 

away  since  when 

Our  fathers  sought  to  'stablish  here  a  nursery  of 
men. 


POEM. 


431 


Prolific  years!  O,   how   events  within  their  circle 

crowd, 
To  make  their  children  trebly  glad;  nay,  jubilant 

and  proud. 

For,  under  God,  to  all  earth's  states  and  empires,  we 

have  shown 
How  every  man  may  be  a  man,  and  each  possess  a 

throne ; 
And  just  proclaimed  to  all  the  waiting  world  in  tones 

sublime, — 
"  This  Union,  indestructible,  shall  last  as  long  as 

Time !  " 

And  round  the  world,  to  make  those  tones  so  reso- 
nant to-day, 

How  well  we  know  what  noble  forms  are  mould'ring 
into  clay. 

So,  to  their  memories  we  come  this  cenotaph  to 
rear, 

And  once  more  shed  above  their  dust  the  reveren- 
tial tear. 

And,  after  all,  't  was  timely  done  ;  not  ingrate  be  it 

said, 
Hath  this  our  loyal  city  proved  unto  her  bravely 

dead. 


432  POEMS. 

O,  better  thus,  that  after  lapse  of  these  reflecting 
years, 

So  fresh  at  last,  so  grand,  so  fair,  our  monument  ap- 
pears. 

Hereby  the  dead,  and  e'en  our  living  selves,  we  do 
assure 

Of  gratitude  unspoiled  of  time — potential  to  en- 
dure, 

And  grow  as  an  undying  cypress  o'er  each  hero's 
grave, 

While  grows  to  vaster  bounds  and  ends,  the  State 
he  died  to  save  ! 

And  unforgotten  be  the  thought,  that — most  divine- 
ly human — 

This  gratitude  found  surest  place  within  the  breast 
of  woman. 

Why  not!  pray  tell,  by  whom  each  death-inviting 
deed  was  done  ? 

Some  maid's  fond  lover  ;  wife's  fond  spouse  ;  some 
mother's  cherished  son ! 

O,  when  the  everlasting  Book,  in  syllables  of 
gold, 

The  unrevealed  biographies  of  angels  shall  un- 
fold; 


POEM. 


433 


How  then,  on  every  dazzling  page,  in  each  resplend- 
ent line, 

Eternally  the  records  of  true  womanhood  shall 
shine  ! 

"  What  lives  she  for  ?  "—exclaimed  a  youth,  with  su- 
percilious air, 

As  at  her  cottage  door  a  dame  sat  knitting  in  her 
chair ; 

"  What  lives  she  for?" — the  answer  came ; — "  Her 
husband  and  three  sons 

In  one  brave  charge  at  Gettysburg,  fell  dead  before 
the  guns ! 

A  fourth  son  holds  judicial  seat ;  while  yet  another 

stands 
A  famed  Apostle  of  the  Word  in  yet  unchristian 

lands. 
She  only  waits  in  God's  good  time,  His  rich  rewards 

to  share, 
So  there  she  sits,  serenely  sad,  and  knitting  in  her 

chair." 

Throughout  the  years  since  waged  the  war,  some 

hearts,  with  impulse  tender, 
Have  throbbed,  a  tribute  to  our  brave   in  fitting 

form  to  render ; 


434  POEMS. 

To-day — the  work  consummated — to  each  and  every 

one, 
In  each  breast  wells  the  sentiment — "Ye  faithful 

souls,  well  done ! " 

And  now,  outlooking  on  the   sea  that  clasps  the 

smiling  strand, 
Defiant  of  the  shocks  of  time,  that  glorious  form 

shall  stand, 
With  outstretched  arm,  magnificent,  the  laurel  to 

bestow 
On  heroes  whose  bright  names  adorn  the  lettered 

plinth  below. 

Our  soldier  boy,  with  form  erect,  shall  greet  each 

rising  sun ; 
Our  sailor  watch  the  gorgeous  west,  as  every  day  is 

done ; 
While  Liberty,  now  all  white-robed,  displays  the 

sword  that  gave 
To  her  true  life,  the  while  it  broke  the  shackles  of 

the  slave  ! 

They  tell  us,  in  the  not  remote,  nor  doubtful  by- 

and-by, 
Along  these  shores,  the  most  majestic  argosies  shall 

ply. 


POEM.  435 

This  placid  inland  sea  those    mammoth  shuttles 

shall  pass  through, 
Forever  weaving  webs  between  the  Old  World  and 

the  New. 

Then,  from  their  decks,  the  emigrant  alike,  and  ti- 
tled guest, 

As,  gazing  from  the  starboard  side,  their  curious 
eyes  shall  rest 

On  fair  Columbia's  shore,  among  its  crowning  roofs 
and  towers, 

Shall  single  out,  with  pleased  surprise,  this  Senti- 
nel of  ours ; 

And  learn,  ere  yet  their  feet  have  pressed  the  hospi- 
table earth, 

What  tribute  our  New  England  pays  to  valor  and  to 
worth  ; 

And  feel  impatient  haste  to  touch  the  soil  of  Yankee 
land, 

And  hear  a  hearty  Yankee  voice,  and  grasp  a  Yan- 
kee hand ! 

Here  shall  the  beauteous  fabric  stand,  as  seasons 

come  and  go ; 
Reflect  the  summer's  sun,  and  wear  its  wintry  robes 

of  snow  ; 


436 

And,  in  their  time,  the  autumn  leaves  ;  and,  every 

joyous  spring, 
Allure  the  birds  to  gather  round,  and  build  their 

nests  and  sing. 

The  boys,  in  mimic  soldier-garb,  shall  here  make 

holiday ; 
The  yachts  do  glad  obeisance  as  they  toss  within  the 

bay, 
And  children  hold  their  festivals  close  by,  within  the 

grove, 
And  plighted  ones  stroll  here  at  eve  to  whisper  words 

of  love. 

Here  shall  the  stately  equipage,  and  unpretentious 
wain 

Bring  oft  their  groups  to  view  these  forms,  and  read 
these  names  again ; 

And  music,  chiming  with  the  waves,  shall  wake  melo- 
dious air, 

And  twilight  offer  respite  here  to  daily  toil  and 
care. 

And  so  the  sure  years   shall  revolve;  and  when, 

amidst  the  dead, 
On  humbler  tablets,  here  and  there,  our  own  names 

shall  be  read, 


POEM.  437 

Enough  for  us,  in  coming  time,  in  memory  of  these 

days, 
If  lips  unborn  shall  bid  us  share  the  tribute  of  their 

praise. 

Meanwhile,  O,  fair  instructress!  teach  the  lesson 
from  above, 

How  better  than  material  good  is  the  sweet  wealth 
of  love ; 

Inciting,  as  we  gaze  on  thee,  such  converse  and  be- 
haviour, 

As  makes  us  more  akin  to  God,  and  to  the  gentle 

Saviour. 

S.  B.  S. 


438  POEMS. 


LINES, 

BEAD   BEFORE  I.   0.    O.    F.,    VIRGINIA    CITY,   NEV.,    APRIL 
26,  1868. 

IN  these  emphatic  and  tumultuous  days, 
When  sins  are  to  the  lowest  scale  deplored, 

Or  favor  strained  in  every  term  of  praise — 
As  ladies'  notes  are  largely  underscored  ; 

"When  argument  seems  but  a  needless  speech, 
Unless  it  bear,  for  force,  some  deadly  threats, 

And  riot  is  assumed  the  mode  to  teach 
That  Charity  which  pardons  and  forgets  ! 

"When  all  is  last,  and  everything  is  first, 

When  good  is  best,  and  bad 's  denounced  the  worst, 

And  men  and  actions  either  kidded  or  cursed ; 

S$ 

When  simple  positives  of  human  thought 
To  fierce  superlatives  are  raised  and  wrought, 
And  old  poetic  types  of  joys  and  woes 
Are  dwarfed  by  new  hyperboles  of  prose  ; — 

In  short,  when  modern  heat  of  temper  and  of  tone 
Has,  in  the  moral  and  the  lettered  sense, 


LINES.  439 

Destroyed  the  climate  of  a  tempered  zone, 
To  substitute  the  torrid  and  intense  : 

How  can  we  hope  our  set  and  sober  theme 
Will  marked  attention  and  respect  invite, 

When  in  imperfect  phrase  we  tell  a  scheme 
That  needs  no  plea,  that  seeks  no  proselyte  ? 

Yet  may  we  sing,  though  our  admonished  muse 
Itself  proclaim  the  critic's  chosen  wrong, 

And  seem,  at  first,  to  question  and  accuse 
For  faults  which  title  all  the  following  song. 

Hail,  mighty  Sun  !  that  gladdens  into  morn 
The  hours  that  date  the  instituting  birth 

Of  this  Grand  Order,  whose  design  was  born 
Beneath  the  Angelas  good- will  chant  to  Earth ! 

Hail !  men  in  bonds  to  fellowship  and  truth  ! 

United  by  the  dying,  o'er  the  dead ; 
Or,  having  passed  the  discipline  of  youth, 

The  rocky  road,  without  a  guide,  can  tread ! 

Hail !  blessed  memories,  which  the  day  invest ! 

Not  heard  in  story,  nor  explained  by  creeds : 
Though  hidden,  yet  the  Ciphers  which  suggest 

Form  choral  alphabets  of  friendly  deeds. 


440  POEMS. 

Welcome  the  year !  for  which  ye  now,  anew, 
Repeat  your  vows  to  sacred  toil  and  strife, 

And  pledge  the  glory  of  the  Past's  review 
In  ample  token  of  a  higher  life. 

What  summons  bid  these  goodly  men  repair, 
With  obvious  pleasure  and  enlightened  zeal, 

To  upper  chambers  which  with  ritual  care, 
Are  ope'd  by  signs,  and  closed  with  secret  seal. 

No  public  heralding  the  stated  hour, 
No  printed  words  the  usual  objects  tell ; 

No  sect  seductions  wield  attractive  power : — 
The  finest  chapel  and  the  sweetest  bell ; 

The  loveliest  shepherd  of  the  wealthiest  flock  ; 

The  largest  gathering  of  the  worldly  great ; 
The  church,  where  simple  purchasers  of  stock 

In  weekly  mourning  humbly  congregate  ; 

None  such  as  these  appeal  or  motive  lend 
To  fill  these  courts,  or  propagate  our  plan  ; 

For  he  who  enters  must  be  vouched  a  friend  ; 
Who  gains  the  grasp  need  only  be  a  Man. 

Though  doubly  sentineled  and  barred  the  gates 
Of  Temples  which  our  Order  rears  and  rules, 


LINES.  441 

Lo  !  not  in  vain  the  weeping  widow  waits 
Without  the  portals  of  the  Vestibules. 

O,  Ministry  to  suffering,  sublime ! 

O,  shrine  of  Mercy,  quick  to  Heaven's  assail ! 
Where,  through  the  babble  of  this  heartless  time, 

With  helpful  grief  is  heard  the  Orphan's  wail ! 

The  trophies  of  great  battle  triumphs  bring 
And  fill  the  museums  for  a  nation's  pride  ; 

As  they  are  gathered  let  the  welkin  ring 

With  songs  which  desperate  threatenings  defied. 

Raise  high  the  pedestals,  in  park  and  town, 
Whereon  the  Hero's  marble  form  may  stand, 

To  mark  and  to  perpetuate  renown, 
For  love  and  service  to  a  glorious  land. 

Adorn  each  capitol's  rotunda  space 

With  paintings  of  bright  deeds  for  Freedom's  home. 
And  crown  the  champion  of  an  age  or  race 

Upon  the  summit  of  the  soaring  dome ! 

But  where  the  earthly  monuments  of  those — 

Save  they  have  built  an  alms-house  for  their  fame — 

Whose  labor  to  relieve  the  common  woes, 
In  worldly  walks  had  reaped  a  mighty  name  ? 


442  POEMS. 

And  even  though  the  costly  Mural  gave 
A  truthful  tale  of  duty  without  price, 

The  stolen  hymn  that  marks  each  villain's  grave, 
Provokes  the  thought  of  Yirtue  mocked  by  Yice. 

And  where  the  prizes  Charity  has  gained 
In  Misery's  scenes,  which  her  apostles  trod  ? 

Intangible  her  trophies — else  profaned 
The  honor  and  the  husbandry  of  God ! 

There  is  no  history  for  the  mortal  eye, 

There  is  no  shaft  that  smites  the  distant  cloud, 

Graven  or  raised  with  grace  to  testify 

Of  kindred  acts  which  Heaven's  blest  vaults  en- 
shroud. 


In  this  new  land,  where  each  man  has  his  creed ; 
Where  meanest  delvers  often  strike  a  lead  ; 
Where  bloody  tragedy ^  audacious  theft, 
And  homes  of  peace  connubial  bereft, 
Whatever  verdict  partial  juries  take, 
By  natural  laws  are  bound  a  book  to  make, 
Where  well-born  subjects  early  leave  their  nurse 
But  to  relieve  the  parent's  plethoric  purse ; 
Wliere  little  girls  to  debauchees  are  tied, 
Until  the  Judge  declares  tho  Priest  has  lied ; 


LINES.  443 

Where  married  women,  of  reproachless  fame, 

With  each  new  bonnet  change  their  wedded  name, 

And,  pitying,  view  those  left  by  them  in  lurch — 

Their  poorer  sisters  of  the  self-same  church — 

Who,  it  would  seem  quite  rational  to  fear, 

"Will  never  marry—  -more  than  once  a  year ! 

Where  politicians  sneer  at  moral  worth 

As  not  related  to  official  birth  ; 

Where  candidates  long  hanker  on  the  shelves ; 

Where  snobs  and  loafers  satirize  themselves ; 

Where  wretches  known  to  be  in  guilt  so  deep 

That  angels  vainly  for  their  souls  might  weep  ; 

To  tenderest  passions  mournfully  appeal, 

And  picture  love  and  truths  they  never  feel  ; — 

Out  from  their  pits  of  sensual  blackness  run 

Their  fiery  cars  of  rhetoric  to  the  sun  ! 

Where  brainless  vagrants,  filled  with  dirty  spite, 

Affect  the  courage  of  an  Ishmaelite  ; 

Where  money-sharks  relentless  prey,  and  then 

Are  epitheted,  "First-rate  business  men ! " 

Where  sordid  self  is  potentate  and  rule  ; 

Who  gives  for  friendship  is  an  arrant  fool ! 

Where  scarce  relieved  frivolity  prevails ; 

Where  Mercenaries  crawl  to  honored  place ; 
Wliere  Legal  License  actually  avails  ; 

To  consecrate  the  world's  supreme  disgrace  ; — 


444  POEMS. 

How  can  you  think  to  organize  a  plan 

That  shall  retain  its  working  skill  and  power 

To  cheer  the  heart  and  meet  the  wants  of  man  ; 
Without  a  startling  tocsin  for  each  hour  ? 

Thy  neighbors'  dangers  and  thine  own  attend 
On  every  moment,  threatening  every  breath  ! 

Where  is  the  system  that  shall  wisest  lend 
All  human  aid  'gainst  Chance, Disease  and  Death? 

When  great  catastrophe  occurs,  and  calls 

For  special  contributions  and  relief ; 
When  fearful  carnage  all  the  land  appalls 

And  moves  the  coldest  to  a  generous  grief  *, 

Abundant  means  for  succor  are  obtained  ; 

Ten  thousand  hands,  gratuitous,  extend 
To  help,  till  life  and  peace  once  more  are  gained, 

And  dreadful  memories  to  the  Past  descend. 

But,  in  the  callous  or  indifferent  world, 
When  quiet  broods  upon  the  social  face ; 

When  all  are  not  in  shocks  of  sorrow  whirled, 
How  find  and  soothe  the  miseries  of  the  race  ? 

This  greatest  precept  must  be  held  in  view — 
Given  by  the  Father  to  the  perfect  Son  : — 


LINES.  445 

Whatever  right  or  duty  thou  wouldst  do, 
In  secret  service  let  the  work  be  done  ! 

Strip  from  the  Symphony  the  vulgar  rhyme 
"Which  blasphemy  upon  its  cords  has  hung  ; 

How  clear  the  soul  lifts  with  the  swelling  chime ! 
How  purely  thrills  the  music,  harped  or  sung! 

Music  !  Th'  Etherial,  and  the  Undefiled ! 

The  heart  and  utterance  of  celestial  truth ; 
Revealing  in  its  innocence  a  child ; 

Its  beauteons  strength  portraying  sinless  youth. 

So  man  :  weak,  vain,  when  nurtured  with  pretense  ; 

If  private  hour  and  fellow  mortal's  needs 
Conspire  to  drive  each  earthly  impulse  hence, 

May  execute  the  unpolluted  deeds ! 

Deeds  of  redemption  ;  though  the  Judge  devotes 

All  other  actions  to  comsuming  fire — 
Changed  by  celestial  alchemy  to  notes 

In  Time's  great  anthem,  for  the  Harvest  Choir  ! 
Aye !  Deeds  that  shall  be  celebrated  when 
The  Morning  Stars,  in  rapture,  sing  again ! 

0.  A.  S. 


446  POEMS. 


THE  FUNEKAL. 

IT  was  a  sightly  funeral  train, 

The  undertaker  man, 
With  coffin-faced  solemnity, 

Conspicuous,  led  the  van. 
The  priest,  with  comely  garb  and  mien, 

Sate,  reverent,  at  his  side  ; 
Then  came  the  hearse,  whose  stately  plumes 

Bespoke  a  solemn  pride. 

"First  carriage": — wherein  honest  grief 

Seemed  manifest  displayed, 
And  kerchief  d  eyes  would  fain  shut  out 

Observance  and  parade. 
"  Coach  Number  Two": — a  lighter  shade 

Of  sorrow  and  distress  ; 
Then  "  Number  Three"  : — appearances 

Of  partial  listlessness. 

But  curious ;  the  occupants 

Of  carriage  "  Number  Four," 
Yawned,  as  to  vote  the  whole  affair 

A  ceremonious  bore  ; 
But,  "Five,"  "  Six,"  "  Seven,"  made  amends, 

With  ever-broadening  smile, 


THE  FUNERAL.  447 

As  ancedote  and  joke  went  round, 
The  journey  to  beguile. 

But — vastly  worse — our  truthful  muse 

Would  hardly  dare  to  state, — 
Were  not  these  verses  based  on  fact — 

The  scenes  in  "  Number  Eight ;" 
Where  two  gay  youths  and  two  fair  maids 

Were  visibly  diverting 
Their  minds  from  the  solemnities, 

By  levity,  and  flirting. 

And  then  behold  in  "Number  Nine," 

A  scene  transcending  far, 
All  we  have  chronicled  as  yet,— 

Four  men,  each  with  cigar ; 
A  robe  upon  their  knees  outspread, 

Suspicious  flask  and  cup, 
Forecasting  resurrection, 

By  playing  "  seven  up  1" 

Then,  in  the  last  conveyance,  rode 

The  female  we  all  know, 
Who  never  lets  occasion  pass, 

To  supplement  the  show; 


448  POEMS. 

And  weeps  and  sobs,  until  the  sight 

Is  pitiful  to  see, 
And  then  inquires,  as  nears  the  grave, 

"  Whose  funeral  might  this  be?" 

S.  B.  S. 


A  SAILORS  VISION.  44.9 

A  SAILOK'S  VISION. 

INSCRIBED  TO  MISS  S.   M.   H. 

THE  night  was  beautifully  clear, 

High  up  the  full-orbed  moon  was  shining, 

As  I, — glad  that  our  port  was  near, — 
Upon  the  capstan  was  reclining, 

Spying  the  sea,  and  backward  thinking, — 
Such  was  my  wont  when  watching  nights ; — 

From  future  thoughts  persistent  shrinking, 
As  never  yielding  old  delights. 

Alone  my  solace  in  the  past, 

Through  all  the  hours  of  toil  and  care  : 
The  morrow's  sky  was  overcast 

With  clouds  whose  depths  I  could  not  dare. 

The  sailor's  thoughts  of  home  were  sweet ; 

Though  late  in  life  he  learned  their  truth, 
He  prayed  that  he  in  Heaven  might  meet 

The  first  companions  of  his  youth. 

How  the  dear  scenes  passed  in  review, — 

Pictures  of  gold  he  pondered  o'er ! 
How  far  beyond  all  price  they  grew, 

As  he  repeated,  "  nevermore  I " 


450  POEMS. 

And  yet  there  was  no  mean  repining, 
No  sickly  yearning  for  the  lost ; 

Those  tender  memories  interlining 
Life's  record,  cheat  it  of  its  cost. 

With  pain  at  times  we  throw  them  by, 
But  soon  return,  when  'tis  revealed 

That  in  those  shades  which  never  die 
The  actual  substance  is  concealed. 

It  was  not  fear  or  shame  that  filled 
My  soul,  when  forward  it  might  look,: 

An  "  undefined  presence  "  chilled, 
And  cursed  the  prospect  I  forsook. 

But  now,  why  should  I  try  evade — 
So  close  the  Fleet  "Wing's  harbor  lay — 

Keflections,  which  before  forbade 
The  simplest  comfort  on  my  way  ? 

Eight  bells  struck  aft ;  upon  relief 
I  did  not  join  the  crew  below  ; 

Their  hearts  with  joy,  as  mine  with  grief, 
Unreasonable  bounds  o'erflow. 

Beneath  the  boats  I  made  my  bed, 

Hid  from  the  moon's  destructive  beams ; 


A  SAILOKS  VISION.  451 

Again  the  earliest  pages  read, 

And  gained  the  quiet  boyhood  dreams. 

What  is  this  strangely  following  sight  ? 

"What  blessed  Angels  walk  before  ; 
Kepeat  the  day,  dispel  the  night, 

And  make  me  anxious  for  the  shore  ? 

Almost  a  copy  for  the  time 

That  I  had  held  in  such  esteem, 
Hope  for  its  likeness  seemed  a  crime, 

Was  promised  in  the  Sailor's  Dream. 

With  me  such  unbelief  remained, 
Against  its  haunting  force  I  strove  ; 

But  constantly  it  was  sustained, — 
With  every  calculation  wove. 

Four  times  the  Farallones  we  made ; 

Three  times  the  lights  flashed  on  the  lee ; 
Four  times  the  winds  opposing  staid, 

And  drove  us  to  the  open  sea. 

What  curious  passions  fill  my  mind ! 

Now  they  depress  and  now  elate, 
When  after  five  long  months  we  find 

An  entrance  through  the  Golden  Gate. 


452  POEMS. 

And  here  begins  the  wondrous  choice  ; 

And  here  commenced  prophetic  days  : 
Familiar  was  the  Pilot's  voice ; 

I  recognized  the  city's  ways. 

With  utmost  faithfulness,  each  part 
Of  hour  and  day  disclosed  the  fact 

"Which  I  had  written  on  my  heart, — 
Foreshadowed,  and  fulfilled  exact. 

The  old  New  England  home,  once  more ! 

The  welcome,  and  the  cheerful  fire, 
Contrasted  suffering,  than  before 

A  keener  relish  must  inspire. 

But  ah !  the  vision  failed  to  tell 

Of  her,  whose  beauty  soon  destroys 

The  peace  of  life,  I  loved  so  well ; 
A  deeper  hope  my  soul  employs. 

With  unaffected  ease  she  spoke 
Of  mutually  familiar  friends  : 

The  memories  her  words  evoke 
A  cherished  possible  transcends. 

I  lent  to  her  my  favorite  books, 

And  proved  our  tastes  alike  inclined : 


A  SAILORS  VISION.  453 

Forgetting  e'en  her  charming  looks, 

In  her  enchanting  grace  of  mind. 

*  *  *  *  * 

The  story  of  the  Dream  's  complete. 

'T  was  fully  true,  save  nought  of  one  ! 
If  a  revealing  trance  repeat, 

And  finish  what  was  thus  begun —  ? 

C.A.S. 

SAOUIQCNTO,  Nov.  25, 1857. 


454  POEMS. 


POEM, 

DELIVERED  AT  THE  ANNUAL  EXHIBITION    OF  THE  HOUSA- 
TONIC  AGRICULTURAL  SOCIETY  AT  GREAT  BAR- 
RINGTON,   MASS.,  SEPT.   29,  1876. 

I'M  no  farmer ;  not  a  syllable  from  lips  of  mine 

shall  drop, 

To  accelerate  or  magnify  a  solitary  crop ; 
And  I  only  come,  with  careless  rhyme,  to  greet 

these  Mends  of  mine, 
The  acquaintances  of  years  ago,  the  neighbors  of 

of  "langsyne." 

And  'tis  singular — I  came  to  sing, — but  all  things 

sing  to  me. 
Olden  tunes  come  wafted  to  my  ear  from  every  rock 

and  tree ; 
And  I  seem  but  echo,  as  I  stand  within  this  native 

vale, 
And  each  object  in  the  landscape  round  repeats  an 

olden  tale. 

But  how  things  have  changed !  go  back  with  me  the 

four  and  thirty  years, 
To  the  time  when  this  good  enterprise  began  with 

doubts  and  fears. 


POEM. 


455 


'T  was  a  curious  coincidence  ;  the  railway  train,  you 

know, 
First   arrived  in  town  that  day,  and  brought  its 

crowds  to  see  the  show. 

And  the  "  show"  was  scattered  all  around, — a  little 
here  and  there, 

Oxen  here,  sheep  over  yonder,  and  confusion  every- 
where ; 

Butter,  cheese,  and  patch-work  counterpanes,  and 
what  not,  stored  in  halls, 

While  along  the  street  were  improvised  seductive 
oyster  stalls. 

O,  let  modern  cookery  essay  its  best  exploits  in 

vain, 
For  those  oysters,  and  that  gingerbread  we'll  never 

taste  again, — 
So  delicious,  and  so  toothsome,  and  done  up  so  very 

"  brown," 
Titillating  the  olfactories  of  all  the  boys  in  town ! 

How  we  used  to  hoard  our  shillings  up,  for  weeks 

and  months  ahead, 
To  invest  in  those  bivalvous  plants,  and  buy  that 

gingerbread ! 


456  POEMS. 

And  how  some  have  made  their  fortunes  since,  who, 

all  those  years  ago, 
Peddled  sweets  and  peanuts  to  the  folks  who  came 

to  "  cattle  show  !" 

I  remember,  to  the  rearward  of  the  stone  church 
used  to  stand 

Half  a  dozen  gorgeous  wagons,  with  their  fancy 
goods  on  hand, 

And  some  very  flippant  orators  their  merchandise 
would  cry, 

O'er-persuading  by  their  eloquence,  the  rustic  pass- 
ers by. 

One  I  think  of  in  particular, — most  charming  auc- 
tioneer— 

Whom  I  knew  I  might  anticipate  with  each  return- 
ing year; 

Whose  financial  sacrifices,  if  the  half  he  said  was 
true, 

Must  have  made  him  bankrupt,  if  alive  ;  I'd  like  to 
*  put  him  through  !' 

Then,  the  man  who  showed  the  learned  pig,  and 
donkey  with  three  legs, 

And  the  cripple,  who  displayed  the  ball  that  knock- 
ed away  his  pegs ; 


POEM.  457 

And  the  everlasting  soap  man,  nevermore  to  be  for- 
got, 

Who  could  cleanse  your  coat  or  conscience  from  a 
microscopic  spot ! 

'Twas  in  those  days,  Major  Rosseter — methinks  I 

see  him  now — 
Something  over  seventy  years  of  age,  walked  proud 

behind  the  plow 
While  before,  at  least  a  hundred  stalwart  oxen  were 

aligned, 
And  His  Excellency,  Governor  Briggs,  and  magnates 

marched  behind ! 

And  in  front  of  all,  surrounded  by  enthusiastic 
boys, 

That  new  village  brass  band  vexed  the  air  with  com- 
plicated noise, 

And  escorted  all  the  people,  to  the  semblances  of 
tunes, 

To  the  meeting  where  should  be  dispensed  the 
speeches,  songs,  and — spoons  ! 

From    beginnings    such   as  these,  the    institution 

thrived  and  grew, — 
For  its  founders,  as  the  sequel  proved,  built  wiser 

than  they  knew ; 


458  POEMS. 

I  might  tell  you  all  the  history  in  lengthy  dia- 
tribe, 

As,  through  many  a  year,  as  I  recall,  I  played  the 
role  of  scribe. 

What  intense  debates  we  used  to  have,  when  first 
awoke  desire 

Some  distinctive  habitation  for  our  purpose  to  ac- 
quire ; 

And  how  many  croakers  shook  their  heads,  and 
said  it  wouldn't  pay; 

Who  shall  find  their  sage  prognostications  all  at 
fault  to-day ! 

And  now  what  an  educator  this  emprise  hath  proved 

to  be! 
Looking  back  a  generation,  what  results  we  come  to 

see. 
Better  farms  and  better  mansions,  better  harvests 

now  than  then ; 
Better  quadrupeds   and  bipeds, — brighter  women, 

thriftier  men ! 

So,  one  thing  begets  another,  through  our  life-work 

as  we  go, 
And  each  tributary  makes  the  river  grander  in  its 

flow; 


POEM.  459 

And  unto  what  vast  proportions  it  shall  magnify 

and  swell, 
In  the  century  that's  coming,  who  shall  venture  to 

foreteU  ? 

In  that  wondrous  exhibition,  now  surprising  all  the 

earth, 
How  we  witness  with  amazement,  to  what  Art  hath 

given  birth, 
Unto  patient  Labor  wedded,  as  together,  hand  in 

hand, 
They  have  cultured  all  the  planet  and  embellished 

every  land ! 

See  how  Kussia  vies  with  Turkey,  and  Australia 
with  Japan, 

In  the  onward  march  of  progress,  all  contesting  for 
the  van. 

Side  by  side  see  China,  Germany  and  Austria  ad- 
vance, 

With  the  Netherlands,  Spain,  Norway,  Sweden, 
Italy,  and  France ! 

Then  the  Argentine  Kepublic,  Chili,  Mexico,  Bra- 
zil,- 

In  the  world's  confederation,  each  a  mission  to  ful- 
fill;- 


460  POEMS. 

"While  old  England,  on  whose  vast  domains  there 

looks  no  setting  sun, 
With  a  pride  we  all  forgive  her,  shows  the  trophies 

she  has  won ! 

Unto  all  of  these  according,  as  we  do,  the  meed  of 

praise, 
How  our  own  beloved   Columbia  evokes  our  own 

amaze, 
As  in  each  field   of  endeavor,  each  proud  rival  she 

defies, — 
In  the  tournament  of  nations,  bearing  off  the  highest 

prize ! 

And  for  all  her  sudden  glory,  I  assert  that  unto 

you, 
Men  and  women  of  New  England,  much  of  all  the 

praise  is  due. 
Take  the  purple  wings   of  morning,  girdle  all  the 

globe  in  vain, 
Nowhere  else  shall  you  discover  more  of  sinew,  heart 

and  brain. 

And  from  out  these  rural  valleys,  and  from  off  these 

mountain  slopes, 
Have  gone  many  brave  evangelists  of  this  young 

nation's  hopes. 


POEM.  461 

'Tis  the  country  makes  the  city,  and  your  country 
boys  are  they, 

Who  control  your  grand  metropolis  and  capital,  to- 
day. 

Now,  the  lesson  I  would  leave  you,  friends   and 

neighbors,  as  we  part,— 
Cultivate  not  matter  only,  but  the  vineyard  of  the 

heart. 
Give  the  plow  its  meed  of  honor,  but  no  less  the 

brain  and  pen, 
And,  whatever  else,  keep  raising  your  true   women 

and  good  men ! 

S.  B.  S. 


462  POEMS. 

LINES, 

PRESENTED  AS  A  SILVER  WEDDING  GUT. 

FULL  five  and  twenty  years  ago, — 
Ah,  me !  what  recollections  swarm, — 

Louisa  changed  her  maiden  name, 
To  please  her  Francis  Mandlebaum.* 

And  if  for  me,  whose  diary  page 
In  single  blessedness  descends, 

The  century  quarter  seems  an  age, 

How  must  it  look  to  these  dear  friends  ? 

For  they  have  had  such  cause  for  joy,— 
Red-letter  hours  of  festal  mirth, — 

In  anniversary  employ, 
For  wedding  day  and  children's  birth  ; 

And  they  have  had  such  scenes  of  woe, 
As  death  of  children  must  decree, 

Since  five-and-twenty  years  ago 

They  married  'neath  the  almond-tree. 

To  them,  indeed,  the  span  of  years 
"With  tenderest  incidents  is  set ; 

*  Signifies  almond-tree. 


LINES. 

Not  one  of  which,  mid  smiles  and  tears, 
Could  they  consent  to  quite  forget. 

Now  when  they  round  this  arc  of  time, 
I  hope  they  will  not  spurn  from  me 

The  gift  I'd  lay  with  friendship's  thyme, 
Upon  their  silver  almond-tree. 

C.  A.  S. 


<>FTm? 


464  POEMS. 


LINES, 

BEAD  AT  BUBNS   FESTIVAL,  BRIDGEPORT,  CONN.,  JANUARY 
25,  1877,  IN  RESPONSE  TO  A    TOAST — THE  LASSIES. 

WHAT  wonder  Scotia's  lyric  bard 

All  lyric  bards  surpasses, 
Whose  inspiration  was  the  glance 

Of  Scotia's  bonnie  lassies. 
In  Edinboro', — on  the  Clyde, 

In  Ayr — delicious  creatures ! — 
How  I  have  worshipped,  (as  I  sighed,) 

The  glory  of  their  features. 

Perhaps  it  is  ozonic  air, 

Off  those  gigantic  mountains ; 
Perhaps  the  waters,  as  they  flow 

From  Afton's  sparkling  fountains : 
Perhaps,  more  like,  the  genial  light 

Of  wholesome  hearths,  and  cozy, 
That  makes  those  eyes  so  clear  and  bright, 

Those  lips  and  cheeks  so  rosy. 

There's  many  a  Highland  Mary  yet, 

That  land  can  reproduce, 
And  many  a  maid  walks  there  as  proud 

As  in  the  days  of  Bruce  ; 


LINES.  465 

And  many  a  Queen  of  Scots  still  lives, 

And  Vernons  and  Mac  Ivors, 
In  fact,  if  not  in  fiction,  leave 

A  host  of  sweet  survivors ! 

O,  when  shall  I  forget  the  morn, 

On  which  the  Judge  and  I, 
At  Melrose  Abbey's  guarded  gates, 

For  guidance  did  apply. 
Soft  eyes  from  out  the  lattice  peeped, — 

A  welcome  voice,  but  shy, 
Said,  "  I'll  encase  my  feet  from  dew, 

The  lawn  is  scarcely  dry." 

Then,  in  a  trice,  from  out  the  door, 

A  vision,  I'll  declare, 
Burst,  such  as  never  seemed  before 

Transcendently  so  fair. 
That  tabernacle  of  alLgrace 

I  see  in  day-dreams  now  : 
That  figure,  and  that  radiant  face, 

And  that  Madonna  brow  ! 

Sir  Walter  tells  us,  as  we  know, 

To  see  Melrose  aright, 
We  should  behold  its  ruined  walls 

Beneath  the  soft  moonlight. 


466  POEMS. 

The  dear  old  soul !  he  could  but  say 
'  Twere  more  delightful  Aidenn, 

To  gather  its  traditions  up 
From  lips  of  such  a  maiden ! 

I  know  not  of  her  name  or  place, 

Nor  can  conjecture  even 
Whether  on  earth  still  beams  her  face, 

Or  one  new  star  decks  heaven. 
But,  living  yet,  a  health  this  night ! 

There's  not  a  flower  that  blows 
More  fragrant  on  the  banks  of  Tweed, — 

Fair  rose  of  fair  Melrose ! 

O,  Scotland !  ever  bright 'ning  page 

In  my  memorial  volume ; 
For  all  thou  hast,  and  art,  we'd  raise 

The  laudatory  column ! 
Thy  scenery,  thy  history, 

The  scrolls  thou  hast  unfurled, — 
The  lanterns  thou  hast  set  ablaze 

To  lumine  all  the  world ; 

Let  others  speak  to-night  of  these, — 

As  fittingly  they  will.— 
Be  mine  my  pretty  text  to  keep — 

My  sweet  task  to  fulfill ; 


LINES.  467 

To  sing  a  simple  heartfelt  strain, 

In  honor  of  dear  woman, 
Who  everywhere,  but  nowhere  more, 
Than  upon  Caledonia's  shore, 

Allies  divine  with  human ! 

O,  I  am  growing  old  apace, 

And  yet — I  know  not  why — 
Not  unneglected  of  my  glance, 

The  lassies  pass  me  by. 
I  love  them  all ; — fair  flowers  they  are 

By  our  kind  Author  given, 
Vouchsafing  here  some  little  share 

And  foretaste  of  that  Heaven., — 

Where,  let  us  hope,  we  all  shall  meet, 

And  on  the  blooming  heather, — 
The  other  side  of  Jordan's  stream, — 

Roam  lovingly  together. 
So  I  conclude  with  sermon,  what 

Was  meant  to  be  a  song, 
And,  in  a  word — God  bless  us  all !  — 

The  sermon  wasn't  long. 

S.  B.  S. 


468  POEMS. 


SHAKESPEAEE. 

LINES  BEAD  AT  THE  ANNUAL  BANQUET  OF  ST.  GEOBGE's 
SOCIETY,   BBIDGEPOBT  CONN.,   1877. 

THBEE  centuries  ago  there  trod 
The  banks  of  Avon,  up  and  down, 
One,  who  upbore  no  earthly  crown, 
But  crowned  magnificent  of  God. 

Imperial  soul !  so  vastly  stored 
From  out  the  treasuries  of  thought ; 
What  empyrean  realms  it  sought ; 
What  undiscovered  heights  explored ! 

Shakespeare  !  Arch  Poet,  bard  sublime ; 
Seer,  autocratic  sage  profound  ; 
How  shall  thy  crescent  fame  resound 
Through  all  the  corridors  of  time  ! 

Earth's  sceptred  kings  may  come  at  will, 
And  each  abide  his  little  day ; 
And  strut  his  while,  and  pass  away 
And  other  kings  their  places  fill ; 

But  THOU»shalt  still  assert  thy  throne, 
Whose  grandeur  shall  attempt  in  vain 


SHAKESPEARE.  4(59 

All  lords  of  earth  ;  and  thou  shalt  reign 
Majestical,  supreme,  alone ! 

For  thou  hast  caught  from  out  the  spheres 
Of  upper  air,  Promethean  fire. 
Proud  Hermit,  where  none  dare  aspire, 
Thou  scornest  the  retreat  of  years ; — 

Years  which  shall  pass  us  laughing  by, 
And  leave  us  wrecked  on  Lethean  shore  ; 
Whilst  thou  shalt  live  forever  more 
In  thoughts  and  words  that  cannot  die ! 

S.  B.  S. 


470  POEMS. 

THE  FATHEB  AND  THEEE  SONS. 

From  the  German. 

As  OLD  in  years,  and  rich  in  goods, 
And  flocks,  and  teeming  soil, 

A  sire  apportioned  to  liis  sons 
The  product  of  his  toil. 

"  One  diamond  ring,"  the  old  man  said, 
"  Is  here,  which  I  withhold  ; 

It  shall  be  his,  who  can  to  me 
The  noblest  act  unfold." 

Thereat  the  brothers  separate, 
And  go  their  several  ways ; 

And  to  their  aged  sire  return, 
At  lapse  of  many  days. 

Then  spake  the  eldest  brother :  "  Hear ! 

A  stranger  all  his  hoard 
Entrusted  me ;  the  which  I  held, 

And  faithfully  restored ; 

"  Say,  Father,  may  I  not  presume 
To  claim  the  glittering  prize  ? 
How  looks  a  noble  deed  like  that, 
In  the  parental  eyes?" 


THE  FATHER  AND  THREE  SONS.  471 

"You  did,  my  son," — the  old  man  said — 

"  "What  duty  bade  you  do. 
The  deed  was  good, — not  noble  though, 

'T  was  simply,  to  be  true." 

The  other  spake  :  "  As  journeyed  I 

Along  in  careless  way, 
I  heard  a  fearful  wild  outcry 

From  out  a  storm-tossed  bay. 

"  I  plunged  into  the  angry  wave, 

The  drowning  child  upbore ; 
And  saved  it. from  the  watery  grave, — 

Could  noble  man  do  more  ?" 

"My  boy,"  the  sire  replied,— "  You  did 

What  mortals  here  below 
In  kindly  offices  of  love 

Unto  each  other  owe." 

"  The  youngest  spake  :  "  Upon  the  brink 

Of  a  stupendous  steep- 
Unconscious  of  his  peril — lay 

My  enemy,  asleep. 

"  Within  my  hand  I  held  his  life,— 
One  thrust  had  hurled  him  o'er, — 


472  POEMS. 

I  drew,  him  back  ;  we  slew  our  strife. 
And  we  are  foes  no  more." 

,    "  O !"  said  the  sire,  with  loving  glance— 
"  Hither  my  noble  boy,  advance ! 
The  ring  is  thine !    Welch  edler  Muth  ! 
Wenn  Man  dem  Feinde  Gutes  ihut" 

S.  B.  S, 


THE  TRAMP'S  SOLILOQUY.  473 

f 

THE  TRAMP'S  SOLILOQUY. 

LAST  night,  within  the  Station  House, 

I  was  distinctly  floored. 
I  noticed,  while  I  had  my  bed, 

Therewith  I  had  my  board. 
But  now  it 's  morn,  and  breakfast  time  ; 

I'll  sally  forth  and  beg. 
I'd  like  a  cup  of  old  Bohea, 

A  biscuit  and  an  egg. 

Well,  here's  a  place  seems  promising  ; 

I'll  ring  the  kitchen  bell. 
There's  something  luscious  broiling  there, — 

O,  what  delicious  smell ! 
All !  here  comes  Bridget ; — Pray,  my  dear, — • 

Your  cooking  I  admire, — 
Would  you  a  gracious  morsel  give 

To  quell  my  stomach's  ire  ? 

What's  this  she  says  ? — "  Begone,  you  wretch! 

Your  blarney  is  all  stuff ; 
And  your  profession  's  overdone, — 

We've  seen  and  heard  enough ! 
Begone,  I  say  !  and  mind  you  this, — 

Don't  show  your  face  here  more." 


474  POEMS. 

With  that,  she  tosses  up  her  nose, 
And,  spiteful,  slams  the  door. 

Well,  well,  I'll  go  across  the  street, 

And  see  what  better  luck ; — 
A  saucier  girl,  in  all  my  rounds, 

I'm  sure  I  never  struck. 
O,  ho !  what's  here ! — a  boarding  house 

I'll  make  another  dash  ; 
I  see  the  breakfast  bill  of  fare, — 

Fish-balls  and  mutton-hash. 


Now,  if  that  matron  had  but  thought 

To  serve  those  viands  warmer, 
And  not  from  off  that  baby's  plate, 

I  wouldn't  wish  to  storm  her. 
Here,  pup  ;  here  kit !  come,  try  your  teeth 

And  talented  digestion  ; — 
I  pass — pass  out,  on  this  queer  game, 

Take,  eat ;  don't  ask  a  question  ! 

But  now,  'tis  getting  serious, 

And  whither  shall  I  wend  ? 
A  lively  notion  strikes  my  mind, — 

The  labor-search  pretend. 


THE  TKAMFS  SOLILOQUY.  475 

Here's  just  the  place ;  I  see  a  face 

Benevolent,  all  over  ; — 
O,  lady  !  for  the  love  of  God, 

Some  work  for  me  discover ! 

I'm  travelling  by  night  and  day 

The  wide,  wide  country  through, 
To  find  some  steady  place  to  stay, — 

Some  useful  thing  to  do. 
And  even  now  I'm  famishing, 

And  oh  !  were  I  but  fed, 
How  gladly  would  I  scrub  that  walk, 

And  rake  that  flower-bed  ! 


I  had  her  there  ;  that  tea  was  fine, — 

How  nice  the  ham  and  eggs ! 
The  pancakes  came  right  in  my  line  ; 

Once  more  I'm  on  my  pegs  ! 
This  spoon  I'll  pawn  somewhere  away — 

"When  many  days  have  sped  ; 
O,  lady  !  here's  your  health ;  good  day  ! 

O,  slighted  flower-bed  I 


S.  B.  S. 


476  POEMS. 

LINES, 

BEAD  AT  F.  W.  PABBOTT'S  GOLDEN  WFDDING,  BBIDGEPOBT, 
CONN.,  MAY  10,  1877. 

THE  golden  wedding  I  O,  reluctant  Muse ! 

Once  more  be  wooed  from  out  thy  coy  retreat ; 
Smile  on  thy  humble  suppliant ;  nor  refuse 

This  brilliant  throng,  this  honored  pair,  to  greet. 

Semi-Centennial !   what  a  lapse  of  years, 

Since  these  good  friends  in  wedlock  clasped  the 
hand, 

And  forth,  with  alternating  hopes  and  fears — 
Adventured  the  long  stroll  upon  Time's  strand. 

I  learn  to  honor,  as  I  older  grow, — 

As  I  would  fain  be  honored,  were  it  mine 

So  long  to  live  ;  the  "  gude  folk"  whom  I  know, 
Whose  history  reaches  to  the  far  "  lang  syne." 

Half  century  ago  ; — Exceeding  queer  !— 

This  couple  strayed  beneath  the  soft  moonlight. 

How  many  forms,  like  mine,  which  were  not  here, 
Are  gathered  to  congratulate,  this  night ! 

For  we  were  dead  ; — out  in  the  void  somewhere  ; — 
As  dead  we  shortly  hence  again  shnll  be ; — 


LINES.  477 

The  world  moved  on  without  us ;  while  this  pair 
Were  living,  breathing,  loving  souls  as  we. 

The  same  hills  here  reflected  the  same  sun  ; 

The  same  fields  spread  their  carpeture  of  green  ; 
The  same  bright  river  sought  its  course  to  run  ; 

The  same  sweet  stars  looked  out  from  Heaven  se- 
rene ; 

And  most  of  us  were,  where, — O  strange!  we  dread 
Once  more  in  course  of  nature  to  withdraw ; 

In  realms,  where  kindred  souls  each  other  wed, 
And  Love,  we  trust,  is  universal  law. 

O,  what  poetic  sermon  would  we  sing, — 

So  the  kind  muse,  would  breathe  into  the  strain ; — 

But  ah  !  she  flitteth  with  uncertain  wing  ; 
I  strive  to  grasp  a  feather,  but  in  vain ! 


Half  century  ago,  my    friends,   is  something  of  a 

while. 
It  means  a  toilsome  journey,  friends,  and  many  a 

weary  mile. 
And  when  we  greet  the  man  and  wife,  who  all  that 

length  of  time 
Have  clung  together ;   prose  is  dull,  and  thought 

should  dress  in  rhyme. 


478  POEMS. 

For  what  a  theme  it  opens  up  to  the  poetic  pen ! 
And  what  perspective  stretches    out    betwixt  the 

"Now  "and  "Then." 
What  memories  it    congregates    in   overwhelming 

throng, 
To  challenge  all  the  force  of  speech,  and  melody  of 

song! 

I  see  in  distant  retrospect,  the  sturdy,  striving 
boy, 

Ambitious,  all  his  energy  in  life-work  to  employ ; 

To  give  the  world  endeavors  best ;  and,  in  return 
demand 

Some  recognition  of  his  worth,  at  this  world's  jeal- 
ous hand. 

Here  was  he  to  the  manor  born  ; — a  native  of  the 

soil; — 
Here,  spent  his  childhood  and  his  youth  ;  and  here 

his  manly  toil. 

Courageous  and  laborious,  these  many  years  along  ; — 
O,  what  career  more  fit  to  be  enwoven  into  song ! 

Life's  real  heroes  don't  wear  star  and  garter  all  the 

time  ; 
Your  quiet,  unassuming  men  are  fittest  theme  for 

rhyme. 


LINES.  4.79 

I  know  some  steeds  upon  parade  evoke  a  loud  ap- 
plause, 

But  in  the  long  run  give  to  me  the  faithful  one 
that  DRAWS  ! 

Some  men  produce,    while    more    consume; — this 

friend,  his  whole  life  o'er, 
Has  added,  not  subtracted,  in  the  count  of  earthly 

store  ; 
Grown  rich,  perhaps ; — within  a  home  where  luxuries 

surround  it, — 
He'll  leave  at  last  his  neighborhood  much   richer 

than  he  found  it. 

So,  as  the  soft  approaches  come,  of  life's  late  after- 
noon, 

Fain  would  we  summon  the  fond  muse,  in  lightly 
sandaled  shoon 

Hither  approach  ;  and  for  the  nonce,  with  smiling 
face,  look  down, 

And  deck  this  septuagenary  brow  with  fitting 
crown. 

But  hush  !  we  can  but  apprehend,  there'll  be  domes- 
tic strife, 

Unless,  right  here, — the  muse  pays  some  attention 
to  the  wife ! 


480  **          POEMS. 

O,  what  a  pretty  girl  was  she !  with  glance  so  bright 

yet  tender, 
Which  brought  the  boy  upon  his  knee,  and  bade  his 

heart  surrender. 

We'll  not  narrate  the  courtship  scenes  enacted  by 
this  pair, — 

As  intimated  heretofore,  we  were  engaged  else- 
where.— 

Had  we  been  here,  officious  aid  had  hardly  been  al- 
lowed. 

Two — then  as  now — was  company  ;  but  three,  too 
big  a  crowd. 

Tradition  has  it,  that  the  girl  had  many  a  sighing 
beau; 

And,  for  a  time,  not  wholly  smooth,  Love's  rivulet 
did  flow ; 

And  yet  our  hero  broke  the  ice,  and  did  not  yield 
nor  faltar, 

But  persevered  until  he  led  his  lady  to  the  al- 
tar. 

Though  his  has  been  a  good  success,  the  world's  af- 
fairs amid, 

His  marriage  was  the  smartest  thing,  we  think  he 
ever  did. 


LINES. 

A  faithful  helpmeet  he  acquired ;  a  loving  wife  and 

mother ; — 
So  he  could  say  through  all  these  years  ; — "  there 

never  lived  such  other." 

She  helped  him  toil  and  calculate ;  fond  babes  to 

him  she  bore ; 

She  aided  to  accumulate  in  basket  and  in  store ; 
And  sometimes — barely  possible — her  sceptre  was 

the  ladle, 
To  make  "  creation's  lord"  sit  down,  and  rock  that 

boisterous  cradle  I 

Yet  she  was  a  true  heroine  ;  how  often  have  I  heard, 
She'd  let  him  come  home  late  o'  nights,  and  never 

say  a  word ! 

I  state  this  for  the  benefit  of  other  ladies  here — 
One,  in  particular,  I  see,  I  think  is  "  on  her  ear." 

O,  I  might  sing  the  livelong  night,  to  coax  a  cry  or 

laugh ; 
You  notice,   what  I'm  dealing  out,  is  something 

"half  and  half ;"— 
But  these  old  people,  you  can   see   at  superficial 

glance, 
Are  growing  dreadful  frisky,  and  impatient  for  the 

dance ! 


482  POEMS. 

So,  let  the  hearty  bugler  blow  his  most  arousing 

horn! 
Ring,  bells  !  Attune  the  jocund  hours !  don't  let's  go 

home  till  morn ! 
But,  when  we  go ; — both  glad  and  sad, — how  must 

we  all  agree — 
"What  we  have   seen   this  nuptial  tide,  we  never 

more  may  see ! 

S.  B.  S. 


MOR8.  483 


MOBS. 

I  DREAMED  there  was  a  luxury  in  death. 

Fond  friends  and  kindred  round  the  couch  were 

sighing, 
AVhile  there  in  state,  quiescent,  I  was  lying, 

Awaiting  calmly  the  expiring  breath. 

It  seemed,  as  on  a  throne  I  was  uplifted, 
So  all  surrounding  faces  gazed  on  me  ;  — 

O,  had  I  been  with  tongue  of  angel  gifted, 
How  had  I  half  disclosed  what  I  could  see  ! 


j  with  rapt  and  beatific  vision, 
Worlds  far  beyond,  and  O,  so  far  above  ! 
Where,  midst  the  empyrean  spheres  elysian, 
The  seraphs  love  to  live,  and  live  to  love. 

Then,  all  at  once,  at  beck  of  some  supernal 
And  glorious  being  —  radiance  o'er  her  head  — 

I  seemed  to  soar  into  the  realms  eternal, 
And  earth's  poor  grovellers  pronounced  me  "  dead. 

S.  B.  S. 


484  POEMS. 

SPEING. 

SHE  comes !  I  know  her  footsteps  as  they  fall 
On  this  glad  earth,  so  gloriously  drest, 

Once  more  in  all  her  bowers  to  install 

This  new-born  goddess,  this  delightful  guest. 

She  comes  !  I  scent,  in  violet  and  rose, 

Her  perfumed  garments  as  she  trips  along ; 

How  every  apple-blossomed  ringlet  flows, 
As  she  moves  on — a  personated  song ! 

She  comes !  the  forest  trees  are  all  awake  ; 

The  cataract  exults  ;  the  warm  sun  shines ; 
The  birds  their  southern  fastnesses  forsake, 

To  build  once  more  their  nests  in  northern  pines. 

She  comes !  the  boys  and  girls  are  all  aglee  ; 

The  coasting  and  the  skating  days  are  past. 
"  Good-bye,  decrepid  Winter !  here  comes  she ! 

We  love  her  after  all,  the  first  and  last ! '* 

She  comes !  best  season  of  the  rolling  years,— 
Most  welcome ;  would  we  doubt  the  reason  why  ? 

She  tells  us  every  time  she  re-appears  : 
"The  dead  shall  rise  again ;  ye  cannot  die!  " 

S.  B.  S. 


ALBERT.. 


ALBEKT.* 

Nor  wrapped  in  memory's  spell, 
But  in  some  other  self  enshrined  ; 

Absorbed,  yet  free  to  dwell 
"Within  the  frescoed  chambers  of  the  mind. 

Unnumbered  scenes  are  set, 
Distinct,  but  incomplete  they  seem  ; 

As  when  a  heart  regret 
Swells  to  the  anguished  outcry  of  a  dream. 

Mid  twilight  views  of  years, — 
Serene — exulting — yet  oppressed  ;— 

Wherein  the  boy  appears 
I've  rocked  a  thousand  times  upon  my  breast. 

'Tis  but  a  flashing  look, 
I  wish  and  wish  not  to  prolong ! 

'Tis  caught,  then  quick  forsook  : 
The  wild,  woird  witchery  of  his  infant  song! 

And  then  consummate  skill 
On  harps  of  most  melodious  strings, 

*  Albert  was  returning,  when  drowned  at  Halifax,  from  a  two 
years'  residence  in  Europe.  He  was  a  fine  musician,  and  musical 
composer.  His  musical  works  have  been  collected  and  published 
in  an  elegant  volume,  by  O.  Ditson  &  Co.,  Boston, 


486  POEMS. 

Bequeaths  the  ecstatic  thrill, — 
The  sorcery  Genius  summons,  weaves  and  flings. 

Again  those  pictures  come 
Of  peaceful  sail ;  of  wrecking  shocks  I 

The  captain  steeped  in  rum, 
Tossing  his  vessel  on  the  jagged  rocks ! 

O  God !  amid  the  roar 
Of  waves  and  winds  ;  'mid  women's  cries  ; 

Did  that  sweet  spirit  soar, 
Bathed  in  symphonious  echoes  from  the  skies  I 

Child  of  last  hope  and  fears ! 
Youth,  with  seraphic  rhythm  endowed  ! 

Comrade  of  choicest  years, 
A  brother's  soul  above  thy  grave  is  bowed ! 

C.  A.  S. 


THE  PRODIGAL  SON.  487 

THE  PKODIGAL  SON. 

SINCE  I  heard  Doctor  Chapin  a,  certain  Lord's  day, 
His  Sabbath  evangel  from  Heaven  convey, 
I  remember  the  sendee — how  fitly  begun, — 
As  he  read  the  old  parable — "  Prodigal  Son." 

As  that  voice,  so  magnificent, — rendered  the  text, 
A  stranger  enraptured,  whose  seat  was  just  next, 
Accosted  me  thus  :  "  How  the  God-man  in  Glory, — 
I  speak  reverential ; — could  tell  a  sweet  story ! " 

The  prodigal  son  !  I  would  touchingly  bid 
Every  prodigal  son  to  do  just  as  he  did. 
You're  a  prodigal  now  ;  you  need  only  return, 
To  discover  what  hearts  for  your  welcoming  yearn. 

No  matter  what  goods  and  what  hours  you  have 
squandered. 

No  matter  how  far  from  life's  duty  you've  wan- 
dered. 

There's  a  sun, — aye,  a  SON  ! — on  your  pathway  to 
shine, 

Through  a  lens  that's  all  human,  but  O,  how  divine ! 

The  good  brother  was  jealous;  he  stayed  on  the 

farm, 
And  faithfully  wrought  with  laborious  arm  ; 


488  POEMS. 

No  matter ; — reserved  with  a  fatherly  care, 
In  the  old  man's  heart's  chambers,  a  place  was  still 
there ! 

And  the  boy  ; — we'll  acknowledge  his  courses  were 

wild, 
But  he  learned  the  sad  lessons ;  and,  once  more  a 

child, 
From  the  dreadful  deceits  of  the  world  would  fain 

come 
Penitential  to  beg  for  the  old  home,  at  home  ! 

Did  the  fond  sire  reject  him?   The   Gospel  shall 

sing,— 
"  Bring  forth  fatted  calf  ;  the  best  robe  ;  the  bright 

ring! 

With  the  echoes  of  merriment,  household,  resound ! 
For  our  dead  is  alive,  and  our  lost  one  is  found !  " 

O,  THIS  is  Keligion !  we're  prodigals  all, 
"Who  inhabit  and  tread  this  terrestrial  ball ; 
But,  for  sinner,  transgressor,  for  every  one — 
There  is  hope  ; — read  the  story ;  tie  prodigal  son. 

S.  B.  S. 


GEORGIANNA.  439 

GEOBGIANNA. 

O,  BOSOM  friend  of  many  years  ! 
Partaker  of  my  hopes  and  fears  ; — 
Rejoicing  when  I  did  rejoice, 
And,  when  I  wept,  with  gentle  voice, 
And  sympathetic  words,  assuaging 
The  agony  within  me  raging  ; — 
Fond  mother  of  fond  babes  of  mine ; 
Priestess,  at  our  domestic  shrine  ; 
Sunlight  of  our  domestic  hearth  ; — 
This  benizon,  of  little  worth, 
Take  from  thine  ardent  swain  of  yore, 
Whose  love  hath  ripened  more  and  more  ; — 
Georgianna ! 

Strange !  how  as  people  come  and  go, 
I  chanced  that  sparkling  lass  to  know. 
From  out  her  eye  there  flashed  one  dart, 
Which  quite  transfixed,  and  won  my  heart. 
I  yielded  all  I  was,  and  had  ; 
Too  fortunate,  too  proud,  too  glad 
To  clasp  as  mine  that  faithful  hand, 
And  kneel  beneath  the  silken  band, 
Which  bound  us  happily  in  one, 
As  was  our  wedded  life  begun  ; 

Georgianna ! 


490  POEMS. 

What  treasure  in  my  chosen  mate, 
No  chosen  words  can  fitly  state. 
All  our  experiences  through, 
Thou  hast  been  constant,  loving,  true. 
In  all  vicissitudes  of  life 
Thou  stand' st  approved,- — a  model  wife  ! 
Mayhap  our  grandchildren  may  read 
These  words,  and  give  them  reverent  heed  ; 
Georgianna ! 

The  years  roll  on  ; — 'tis  growing  late, — 
And  we  anon  must  separate; 
But  somewhere,  on  some  shining  shore, — 
Where  amaranth  blooms  evermore, — 
Let's  hope,  the  good  God  will  permit, 
That,  re-united,  we  may  sit, 
And  hear  sweet  strains  of  music  sounding, 
Where  Heaven's  grand  minstrelsy  resounding 
Shall  welcome  to  the  scenes  above 
The  earth-born  souls  most  meet  for  love  ; 
Georgianna ! 

Meanwhile,  be  thou, — as  thou  hast  been, — 
Within  this  home  enthroned  as  queen. 
Still  give,  from  thy  resources  ample, 
Our  children,  precept  and  example  ; 


QEORQIANNA. 

Be  my  first  critic  as  thou  hast, — 
Mentor  unknown  through  all  the  past ; 
And  where  or  how  our  lines  may  be, 
Beam  on  my  pathway  ;  cleave  to  me  ; 
Georgianna ! 

S.  B.  S. 


492  POEMS. 


OUK  FATHEE. 

BROTHER  !  we  cannot  close  these  waifs  of  ours, 
Until  upon  that  honored  grave  we  place, — 
With  filial  and  with  reverential  grace, — 
A  simple  garland  of  memorial  flowers. 

A  man  not  only  good  and  true,  but  great, — 

To  us,  indeed,  almost  a  demi-god ; 

His  smile  was  bliss ;  his  frown  was  gloom  ;  his  nod 

Oracular ;  his  lightest  speech  was  weight. 

Whoe'er  would  meet  his  logic,  must  prepare  ; 
Whoe'er  impugn  his  honor,  must  take  heed  ; 
Whoe'er  his  learning  would  attempt,  must  read ; 
Whoe'er  would  tell  him  falsehood,  must  beware. 

Imperious  oft,  and  with  his  thoughts  astray, 
How  would  he  sometimes  overawe  us  boys. 
How  well  admonished  then  to  hush  our  noise, 
And  shift  elsewhere  our  racket,  and  our  play. 

Yet  we  remember,  in  his  leisure  hour, — 
The  golden  moments  of  his  care's  surcease, — 
How  would  he,  giving  else  a  brief  release, 
Abundant  floods  of  warm  affection  shower. 


OUR  FATHER.  493 

What  fund  of  wisdom,  wit.  and  anecdote 
From  that  prolific  intellect  outpoured ! 
How  apt,  how  lavish,  from  his  memory  stored, 
Could  he  the  royal  bards  and  sages  quote ! 

How  Judges  hearkened  ;  and  the  learned  Shaw 
Exclaimed,  as  he,  our  father,  argued  oft 
With  rivals  of  that  day,  on  themes  aloft, 
"  He  came  to  Berkshire  county  to  learn  law." 

But  oh  !  before  the  "  august  twelve,"  how  vast; 
How  irresistible,  o'erwhelming  powers 
Our  sire  displayed  ;  as  through  unheeded  hours, 
Spellbound  he  held  his  willing  captives  fast ! 

We  know  some  littler  men  had  larger  sphere, — 
And  we  have  lived  the  why  to  understand  ;— 
But  when  and  where  he  spake,  was  to  command  ; 
He  feared  no    anakim, — he  was  their  peer ! 

How  oft,  in  afternoon  of  Sabbath  day, 

Would  he  the  psalmist  and  the  seer  intone ; 

Voicing  the  sacred  text,  as  he  alone 

Could  render  words  earth's  saints  were  born  to  say. 

(And  there  our  mother  and  our  sister  sat, — 
What  specimens  of  glorious  womanhood ! — 
Both  gone  ;— O  God  !  I  would  not,  if  I  could, 
He-break  my  heart  upon  a  theme  like  that !) 


494 


POEMS. 


Brother !  whate'er  we  fail  of,  or  acquire  ; 
Whate'er  we  lose  in  future,  or  secure ; 
One  fixed,  irrevocable  boon  is  sure, — 
The  certain  sonship  of  a  noble  sire. 


S.  B.  S. 


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Evolution  and  Progress: 

An  Exposition  and  Defence.       The  Foundation  of 
Evolution  Philosophically  Expounded,  and  its  Argu- 
ments (divested  of  insignificant  and  distracting  physical 
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lending    opponents,   as   Dawson   and   Winchell,    and 
quasi-opponent s,  as  Le  Conte  and  Carpenter.    By  Rev. 
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N.  J.      The  first  volume  of  the  International   Prize 
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!!••  Is  a  cle;u-  and  .strong  reasoner.  —  Cincinnati  Christum  Standard. 

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It  is  ably  written.     iJuilds  on  philosophical  principles.— Brooklyn  Union. 

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1   rejoice  in  all  attempts  of  this  kind,  made  in  a  spirit  like  that  which 
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It  is    a   book  of  original  thinking  on  one  of  the  greatest  themes ..A 

ke.-i,,  thoughtful,  vigorous  volume.— Golden  Age. 

likes  with  no  velvet  glove,  but  with  a  steel-clad  hand,  dealing  his 
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His  effort  is  earnest,   able  and  hold It  presents,   in  all  their  naked 

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it  ten  in  an  Interesting  a-id  popular  style  and  contains  much  useful  in- 
formation.—  Oakland,  C'al.,  Daily  NKWH. 

'I'ln-  suhjtM-t  of  Hit;  hitfli  v;ilu;inon  of  gold  and  silver  currency  is  fully  dis- 
ainl  otl.-rs  some  new  ideas  worthy  the  attention  of  those  interested  iu 
nn'in-iiiry  :\.il-A\\-s,.  — Toledo  Commercial. 

The  author  i-a  niercbant  who  has  extensively  studied  the  currency  problem. 

His  hits  a iv  often  >h:irp  and  incisive Mr.  Pllon  would  provide  ample 

bunking  facilities  for  rvi-i  y  city,  town  and  village,  with  both  stock  and  laud 
security.  — Cincinnati  Daily  Star. 

DlMOMlug  the  currency  question  in  an  original,  forcible  and  enter- 
taining style.  The  author  has  brought  together  a  great  amount  of  varied 

Information  upon  the  whole  subject  of  money Those  interested  will  find 

unquestioned  ability  iu  the  author's  handling  of  it.— Baltimore  Methodist 
Protestant. 

The  Manuscript  Manual : 

How  to  Prepare  Manuscripts  for  the  Press — practical 
and  to  the  point.  Paper,  26  pp.,  8vo.  Price  10  cents. 

A  most  useful  little  companion  to  the  young  writer  and  editor.— The  South, 
*  (iiveseicellent  hints  to  Juteiidiug  writers. -Cleveland  Evan.  Messenger 


TUB   AUTHDRS'    PUBLISHING    CO.'S   NEW    BOOKS. 

ESTHETIC  THOUGHT. 

Srene;  or,  Beach-Broken  Billows: 

A  Story.  By  MRS.  B.  F.  BAER,  author  of  "  Lena's 
Marriage,"  "The  Match-Girl  of  New  York,"  "Little 
Bare-Foot,"  etc.,  etc.  The  second  volume  of  the  Inter- 
national Prize  Series.  SECOND  EDITION.  Ctoth  extra, 
fine  thick  paper.  12mo.  .  .  .  Price  $1  00. 

Natural,  honest  and  delicate.—  New  York  Herald. 

Charming  and  thoughtful.— Poughkeepsie  Eagle. 

Depicted  »n  strong  terms. — Baptist  Union,  New  York. 

Eminently  pleasing  and  profitable. — Christian  Era,  Boston. 

A  fascinating  volume.  —  Georgia  Musical  Eclectic  Magazine. 

Characters  and  plot  fresh  and  original. — Bridgeport  News. 

With  freshness,  clearness,  and  vigor.— Neb.   Watchman. 

Delightful  book. — Saturday  Review,  Louisville,  Ky. 

Lays  open  a  whole  network  of  the  tender  and  emotional. — 
Williamsport  (Pa.)  Daily  Register. 

The  unity  is  well  preserved,  the  characters  maintaining  that 
probability  so  essential  in  the  higher  forms  of  fiction. — Balti- 
tno-i  e  Methodist  Protestant. 

There  is  a  peculiar  charm  in  the  reading  of  this  book,  which 
every  one  who  peruses  it  must  feel.  It  is  very  like  to  that 
which  is  inspired  in  reading  any  of  Hawthorne's  romances.— 
Hartford  Religious  Herald. 

Wild  Flowers: 

Poems.  By  CIIAHLES  W.  HUBNER,  author  oi 
"  Souvenirs  of  Luther."  Elegantly  printed  on  fine 
tinted  paper,  with  portrait  of  the  Author,  imitation 
morocco  and  beveled  edges,  196  pp.,  12mo.  Jus*  ready, 
Price  $ i.  oo.  The  same,  gilt  top,  beveled  edges,  $1.25 

Asa  poet  Mr.  HUBNEH  is  conservative— always  tender  and  delicate,  never 
turbid  or  erratic.  He  evinces  a  strong  love  of  nature  and  high  spirituality, 
and  brings  us,  from  the  humblest  places  and  in  the  humblest  guises,  beauties 
of  the  heart,  the  life,  the  universe,  and.  while  placing  them  before  our  vision, 
has  glorified  them  and  shown  that  within  them  of  whose  existence  we  had 
never  dreamed. 


Her  Waiting  Heart: 

A  Novel.    By  Lou  CAPSADELL,  author  of  u  Hallow 
E'en."    Cloth  extra,  192  pp.,  12mo.    Just  ready.  $1  ua. 

A  srory  of  New  York— drawn  from  the  familiar  phases  of  life,  which,  under 
the  calmest  surfaces,  cover  the  greatest  depths.  Charming  skill  is  shown  in 
the  naturalness  of  characterization,  development  of  plot  and  narrative, 
fctreugtli  of  action  and  delicacy  of  thought. 


THE  AUTHORS'  PUBLISHING  co.'s  NEW  BOOKS.     ? 
Shadowed  Perils: 

A  Novel.  By  M.  A.  A  VERY,  author  of  "The  Loyal 
Bride,"  etc.  English  cloth,  260  pp.,  12mo,  ...  $1  25 

The  story  Is  hold  and  dramatic  In  action,  graceful  In  narrative,  strong  In  characteriza- 
tion, intense  in  interest,  sweet  and  pure  in  tone,  and  is  marked  by  keen  sympathy  with 
the  lowly  and  oppressed. 

Egypt  Ennis;  or,  Prisons  Without  Walls: 

A  Novel.  By  KKLSIC  ETHERIDGE.  Paper,  97  pp., 
8vo., Price,  35  cents. 

H&»  the  curiosity-exciting  tendency.— Botton  Beacon. 

The  interest  grows  and  retains  attention  to  the  end — If.  0.  Picayune. 

Short,  sententious,  marrowy,  and  spiced  with  episodes.  Has  a  warm  southern  aroma 
of  orange  and  magnolia  blossoms — Bultimorr  MHh.  Prat. 

Of  rare  beauty  and  power  In  its  vivid,  life-like  picturing  of  men  and  places 

Through  such  artistic  touches  of  skill  and  strength  -we  are  wafted  in  thought  as  we  fol- 
low the  hero  and  heroine  through  the  mazes  of  the  old,  old  story Ladies' Pear],  St.  Louis. 

The  Travelers'  Grab-Bag ;  or,  the  Heart  of  a  Quiet  Hour : 

A  Hand-book  for  utilizing  fragments  of  leisure  in  railroad 
trains,  steamboats,  way  stations  and  easy  chairs.  Edited 
by  AN  OLD  TRAVELER.  .  .  .  Paper,  100  pp., 
8vo. Price,  35  cents. 

full  of  iplce  and  fun.—R.iJtim'>re  J/rt/t.  Prot. 

No  traveler  should  be  without  it N.  Y.  Forest  and  Stream. 

Teeming  with  rollicking  humor  and  a  kind  of  satire  that  will  bs  enjoyable.— Pittsburgk 


The  Anti-Biled  Shirt  Club: 

Clear  type,  heavy  tinted  paper,  12mo,        .         .        25  cents. 
The  carious  and  ludicrous  experiences  of  a  party  of  gentlemen  who 
sought  happiness  in  the  forests  of  Maine ;  graphically  told  with  a  naive 
humor  and  delicate  satire;  fresh  and  spicy. 


y     THE  AUTHORS'  PUBLISHING  co.'s  NEW  BOOKS. 
Women's  Secrets;  oiyHow  to  be  Beautiful: 

Translated  and  Edited  from  the  Persian  and  French,  with 
additions  from  the  best  English  authorities.  By  Lou. 
CAPSADELL,  author  of  "Her  Waiting  Heart,"  "Hallow 
E'en,"  etc.  Pp.  100,  l^mo. 

Saratoga  Edition,  in  Scotch  granite  paper  covers,  25  cents. 
Boudoir  Edition,  French  grey  and  blue  cloths,  .  75  cents. 

The  systems,  directions  and  recipes  for  promoting  Personal  Beauty,  as  practiced  for 
thousands  of  years  by  the  renowned  beauties  of  the  Orient,  and  for  securing  the  grace 
and  charm  for  which  the  French  Toilette  and  Boudoir  are  distinguished,  together  with 
suggestions  from  the  best  authorities,  comprising  History  and  Uses  of  Beauty;  The  Best 
Standards;  Beautiful  Children  ;  Beauty  Food,  Sleep,  Exercise, Health,  Emotions-  How 
to  be  Fat ;  How  to  be  Lean  ;  How  to  be  Beautiful  and  to  remain  so,  etc.,  etc. 

Sumners'  Poems : 

By  SAMUEL  B.  SUMNER  and  CHARLES  A.  SUMNER.  On  heavy 
tinted  paper,  with  three  engravings,  comprising  plate  por- 
traits of  the  authors  on  steel.  12mo,  500  pp.,  imitation  mo- 
rocco.   .  .  $2.50 


The  Buccaneers: 

A  stirring   Historical   Novel.      By   RANDOLPH   JONES,  Esq. 

Large  12mo,  cloth  extra,  ink  and  gold,  .  .  $1.50 
Is  drawn  from  the  most  daring  deeds  of  the  Buccaneers  and  the  sharpest 
events  in  the  early  settlement  of  Maryland  and  Virginia.  It  is  so  full  of 
thrilling  action,  so  piquant  in  sentiment,  and  so  thoroughly  alive  with  the 
animation  of  the  bold  and  ambitious  spirits  whose  acts  it  records  with  ex- 
traordinary power,  that  the  publishers  confidently  bespeak  "THE  BUCCA- 
NEERS "  as  the  most  strongly  marked  and  the  beat  of  all  American  novels 
issued  during  the  year. 


Inclose  three-cent  stamp  for  pamphlet,  comprising  des- 
criptive catalogue  and  the  plan  of  organization  and  working  of 
The  Authors'  Publishing  Company.  Address, 

THE  AUTHORS'  PUBLISHING  CO., 

27  Bond  Street    New  York. 


